Inez, 


Trilby  May 

by 
Sewell  ford 


(LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


'.^ 


ft&g&MSl 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 


[See  p.  i 

'WELL,  INEZ,"  SAYS  i,  "YOU'VE  GOT  YOUR  WISH.    THIS 
is  NEW  YORK" 


Inez  and  Trilby  May 


BY 
SEWELL  FORD 

AUTHOR  OF 
TORCHY,  SHORTY  McCABE,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

MARSHALL  FRANTZ 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  Amelia 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY i 

II.  LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 17 

III.  INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 37 

IV.  TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 57 

V.  BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 78 

VI.  TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 95 

VII.  THE  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL    .     .    .  116 

VIII.  TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 135 

IX.  INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 154 

X.  WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 172 

XL      TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 191 

XII.  INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 208 

XIII.  A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 223 

XIV.  INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 241 

XV.  UNCLE  NELS  GETS  His  TURN 157 

XVI.  SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 274 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"WELL,  INEZ,"  SAYS  I,  "You'rE  GOT  You* 

WlSH.      THIS   Is  NEW  YORK"      ....        frtmtie&ec* 

Bur  FINALLY  SHE  DID  GET  RECKLESS.  SHE 
TOOK  DOWN  HER  HAIR  AND  LET  IT 
FALL  IN  Two  GREAT  YELLOW  BRAIDS 
OVER  HER  SHOULDERS  Fadm  p.  64 

A  WIG!  AND  WHEN  IT  WAS  LIFTED  THERE 
WAS  A  SANDY,  GRIZZLED  HEAD  THAT  I'D 
SEEN  SEVERAL  TIMES  BEFORE  ....  "  aoo 

"BuT — BUT  MISTER  FAIRBANKS  HE  WAS 
SHOOTIN'  GUNS,  AND — AND  PUSHING 
VILLAIN  IN  FACE,  AND  MAKING  LOVE 
TO  LOVELY  LADY,"  INSISTS  INEZ.  "AND 
HIM,  HE  SNORE?  THAT  CAPTAIN.  HUH!"  '*  25* 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 


INEZ  AND   TRILBY  MAY 
* 

Chapter  I 
Meet  Inez  and  Trilby  May 

"\  ^  7" ELL,  Inez,"  says  I,  "you've  got  your 

VV    wish.     This  is  New  York." 

"Y-es-s-s?"  says  Inez,  blinking  twice,  but  not 
missing  her  stroke  on  the  gum. 

So  for  a  minute  we  stood  there  staring  across 
Seventh  Avenue  at  a  big  hotel,  with  our  suit- 
cases parked  on  the  curb.  And  I'll  admit  I  was 
a  bit  disappointed  in  Inez. 

"Of  course,"  says  I,  "I'm  not  looking  for  any 
landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  exercises  or 
expecting  you  to  make  an  oration,  but  doesn't 
it  strike  you  that  this  one-syllable  stuff  of  yours 
is  kind  of  sketchy  for  the  occasion?" 

Which  jogs  Inez  into  eloquence.  She  rolls  her 
big  gray  eyes  at  me  solemn,  shifts  three  cents' 
worth  of  wintergreen  flavor  from  right  to  left, 
and  remarks,  "Lotta  noise." 

"As  usual,  Inez,"  says  I,  "you  have  come 
i 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

through  with  the  perfect  description.  It's  a 
whale  of  a  racket.  Doesn't  seem  to  be  anything 
extra  going  on,  either,  so  I  expect  it's  just  the 
regular  big-town  growl  that  we'll  have  to  get 
used  to.  And  here's  another  one  of  those  taxi 
pirates  that  I've  got  to  shoo  off." 

But  he  didn't  shoo  as  easy  as  the  other  five. 
He  almost  grazes  the  toe  of  Inez's  No.  9*8  with 
his  front  tire  as  he  pulls  up  in  front  of  us,  holds 
out  a  stubby  thumb,  and  asks,  huskily,  "Taxi, 
lady?" 

"Thanks  for  the  flattery,  Buddy,"  says  I, 
"but,  honest  now,  after  another  good  look,  would 
you  say  we'd  be  the  kind  that  was  yearning  to 
pay  four  bits  for  a  ride  in  a  wheezy  tin  Hank 
with  wabbly  fenders?" 

"Ahr,  say,  girlies,  I'll  make  it  right,"  says  he, 
twisting  his  ugly  face  into  what  he  thought 
would  pass  for  a  smile.  "Where  you  goin'?" 

"What's  your  choice,  Inez,"  says  I,  "the 
Ritz  or  the  New  Ambassador?  Two  blinks. 
That's  a  sign,  Buddy,  that  she  hasn't  made  up 
her  mind,  so  you'd  better  roll  along  before 
Lizzie's  asthma  gets  worse." 

He  rolled,  too,  and  before  the  next  one  could 
hail  us  I  had  dashed  out  and  got  a  tall  traffic 
cop  to  tell  me  how  to  find  this  furnished-room 
house  that  a  friend  of  mine  had  given  me  the 
address  of.  We  walked  the  whole  eighteen 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

blocks,  so  by  the  time  we  had  climbed  the  brown- 
stone  steps  and  been  let  into  the  storage  vault 
that  was  being  used  as  a  reception  parlor  sitting 
came  easy. 

Making  a  trade  with  Miss  Wellby,  though,  was 
another  proposition.  She  wasn't  the  regular 
stage  landlady  you  see  in  vaudeville  sketches 
or  read  about  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. 
You  know — a  multichrome  blonde  with  a 
battle-ax  profile,  a  cold,  suspicious  eye,  and  a 
voice  like  a  saxophone  at  its  worst.  No.  Miss 
Wellby  seems  to  be  a  mild-spoken,  gray-haired 
old  maid  with  tired  eyes  and  gentle  manners. 
But  she  wasn't  taking  in  a  pair  of  cross-mated 
stray  females  like  us  just  because  it  was  a  sporty 
thing  to  do.  And  the  next  I  knew  the  third 
degree  was  well  under  way. 

"Let  me  see,"  says  she.  "I  suppose  you  have 
references?" 

"Eh?"  says  I,  catching  my  breath  quick. 
"Oh  yes.  It  was  Miss  Fipps,  the  day-shift 
cashier  in  Drout's,  where  we  worked  in  Duluth, 
who  referred  us  to  you.  She  had  a  cousin,  a 
perfect  thirty-six  in  some  waist  department, 
who  roomed  here  once.  Miss  Fipps  got  the 
number  from  her." 

Miss  Wellby  indulged  in  a  bored  smile  and 
shook  her  head.  "Rather  vague,  isn't  that?" 
she  asks.  "You  see,  I  make  it  a  rule  not  to 

3 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

rent  my  rooms  to  young  women  unless  I  know 
something  about  them;   a  good  deal,  in  fact." 

"  If  that's  a  cue  for  the  story  of  our  lives,"  says 
I,  "here  goes.  It  won't  take  long.  I'm  just 
Trilby  May  Dodge.  Chuckle  if  you  want  to. 
They  generally  do.  Paw  named  me  after  a 
book  and  an  aunt.  He  was  fond  of  books,  paw 
was,  and  I  have  a  hunch  he  threw  in  the  May 
with  a  fond  hope  that  auntie  might  loosen  up 
on  something  he  could  put  in  the  bank  in  my 
name.  I  don't  know  whether  she  left  anything 
to  me  or  not,  but  if  she  did  I'll  bet  it  didn't  last 
long.  Not  if  paw  could  get  it  out  and  spend  it. 
He  was  that  kind.  His  idea  about  dollars 
was  that  they  were  made  round  so  they  could 
roll  along.  Which  is  one  of  the  seven  mystic 
reasons  why  I  have  mighty  little  past  and  no 
future.  You  can  see  for  yourself  how  short  I 
am  on  looks;  but  if  you're  color  blind  I'll  admit 
the  pale  carroty  hair,  the  moss-agate  green  eyes, 
and  the  rusty  batik-effect  where  my  complexion 
ought  to  be.  I'm  long  on  disposition,  though, 
and  my  one  fatal  gift  is  conversation." 

"Yes,"  says  Miss  Wellby,  "I  can  discover  no 
speech  impediment.  And  your  friend?" 

"Inez  Petersen,"  says  I,  promptly.  "She 
was  born  plain  Miss  Petersen,  and  it  must  have 
been  when  she  was  little  and  cute  that  they 
hung  the  Inez  on  her.  She's  Swede  on  both 

4 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

•ides  and  she's  a  lovely  girl.  You  can  tell  that 
by  the  placid  way  she  handles  her  gum.  We're 
from  Duluth,  Minnesota,  as  Inez  would  pro- 
nounce it — Meen-ah-soda — chanted  through  the 
nose  as  if  it  were  a  solo." 

Miss  Wellby  didn't  seem  either  thrilled  or 
convinced.  "Duluth,"  she  repeats.  "Quite  an 
interesting  city,  I've  heard." 

"You  can  play  that  strong,"  says  I.  "It's 
five  miles  long,  a  mile  wide,  and  a  mile  high,  and 
every  year  they  ship  enough  iron  ore  out  of 
there  to — 

"May  I  ask,"  breaks  in  Miss  Wellby,  "why 
you  left?" 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "To  help  Inez  find  her 
Uncle  Nels.  That  may  sound  a  little  odd,  too. 
She  looks  big  enough  and  husky  enough  to  go 
out  and  find  three  uncles  all  by  herself.  But  I've 
been  brought  up  to  believe  that  this  was  a  big, 
wicked  town,  and  I  couldn't  let  Inez  risk  herself 
alone  here.  You  see,  Inez  did  something  awfully 
nice  for  me  once.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  saved 
my  life." 

"Really!"  says  Miss  Wellby,  giving  her  a 
curious  glance. 

"No,  she  didn't  pull  me  out  of  Lake  Superior, 
or  push  away  a  freight  train  that  was  about  to 
run  me  down,"  says  I.  "She  lifted  me  out  of 
Tamarack  Junction  when  I  thought  I'd  taken 

5 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

root  there.  Of  course  you  don't  know  Tamarack. 
You're  lucky.  It's  three  miles  from  Dodge's 
Clearing,  where  I  lived  from  the  time  I  was  two 
until  I  was  nineteen  going  on  twenty.  How 
paw  found  it,  starting  from  Connecticut,  I  never 
could  guess.  Maybe  he  was  just  trying  to  lose 
himself  in  the  pine  flats.  But  when  he  got  to 
this  ten  acres  of  burned-over  sand,  with  the  little 
clump  of  black  spruce  in  the  middle,  he  seemed 
to  be  satisfied.  Anyway,  that's  where  he  settled 
down  and  proceeded  to  grow  old. 

"He  built  us  a  perfectly  good  home;  that  is, 
if  you  don't  care  what  you  say.  There  were  two 
rooms  and  a  loft — logs  laid  up  with  notch  ends 
and  the  cracks  chinked  with  mud.  Also  a  frame 
cook  shed  in  the  back.  Paw  was  always  prom- 
ising to  build  another  room,  but  he  never  got 
around  to  it.  Poor  old  paw!  He  meant  well. 
And  then,  he  was  kept  rather  busy  supplying  me 
with  new  stepmothers.  It  was  the  best  thing  he 
did,  finding  some  one  to  marry  him.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  was  out  for  the  long-distance 
record  or  not,  but  it  looked  that  way.  His  score 
stood  at  five.  Not  that  he  was  finicky  about  the 
ones  he  picked.  We  won't  go  into  all  the  harrowing 
details,  but  they  kept  getting  worse  and  worse. 
As  for  the  last  Mrs.  Ephraim  Dodge — Well,  I 
don't  blame  paw  for  getting  discouraged.  He 
just  quit.  Asthma  complicated  with  matrimony. 

6 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Quite  a  lot  of  us  were  left — four  different  lots. 
Perhaps  I  didn't  appreciate  them  as  I  should^ 
but  I'm  free  to  say  that  we  were  too  mixed.  That 
sort  of  family  life  I  didn't  care  for  at  all.  Yet  I 
went  on  with  it;  washing,  and  cooking,  and  chop- 
ping wood,  herding  assorted  flocks  of  youngsters, 
without  ever  dreaming  there  was  a  way  out. 
Not  until  that  day  when  I  went  down  to  the 
Junction  to  sell  six  quarts  of  raspberries,  and 
found  Inez  sitting  on  a  baggage  truck  waiting 
for  the  northbound  train.  I'd  never  seen  her 
before,  but  that  didn't  prevent  me  talking  to  her. 
About  then  I  couk'  have  chatted  with  a  one-eyed 
mule  and  enjoyed  it.  And  when  I  discovered 
that  she  was  leaving  home  because  she,  too,  had 
a  stepmother  that  she  wasn't  altogether  crazy 
about,  and  an  old  man  who  used  a  rake  handle 
on  her  now  and  then — well,  I  warmed  to  her,  as 
the  poets  say.  I  wanted  to  know  all  about  her 
plans.  And  Inez  told,  using  her  code.  'Home  I 
no  like,'  says  she,  'so  I  go  up  on  the  Range,  by 
Coleraine.  I  gotta  job  in  mine  boarding  house.' 
Then,  after  a  little,  she  asks :  'You  come,  too,  eh ? 
Plenty  jobs.'  'Me!'  says  I.  'Would  you  say  I 
was  dressed  for  traveling,  Inez?'  and  I  turned 
around  so  she  could  get  the  full  effect  of  my  dollar- 
ninety-eight  mail-order  morning  costume,  berry 
stains,  brier  tears,  and  all.  Also  I  added  that  I 
hadn't  a  cent  of  real  money.  With  that  she  un- 
2  7 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

winds  a  handkerchief,  counts  out  two  whole  dol- 
lars, and  says :  'Come.'  Just  like  that. 

"What  a  lot  of  things  you  can  think  of  in  a 
few  seconds,  can't  you?  I  could  see  myself 
tramping  back  to  the  clearing;  the  little  old 
shack  with  the  cluttered  dooryard;  the  stumpy 
fields,  mostly  grown  up  to  fireweed;  the  burned 
woods  beyond,  naked  and  dreary.  I  could  see 
Maw  Dodge,  slumped  down  in  the  doorway,  her 
greasy  hair  falling  over  her  bleary  eyes.  I  could 
hear  her  snarl  at  me.  I  could  see  the  old  cook- 
stove,  the  woodpile  where  I  would  have  to — 
Well,  I  took  the  two  dollars  and  kissed  Inez 
smack  on  the  lips.  Before  dark  we  were  up  in 
Coleraine,  passing  beef  stew  and  hot  corn  bread 
and  apple  pie  to  checking  clerks  and  steam-shovel 
bosses  and  third  assistant  engineers.  Happy! 
Say,  a  kitten  chasing  its  tail  couldn't  have  felt 
lighter  in  the  head.  I  knew  that  I'd  crossed 
Dodge's  Clearing  off  the  map  for  good  and  all." 

"I  see,"  says  Miss  Wellby.  "You  were  grate- 
ful to  Miss  Petersen." 

"From  my  back  hair  to  my  big  toes,"  says  I. 
"Maybe  the  streak  was  in  me  all  the  time,  but 
nobody  had  ever  tapped  it  before.  'Tell  me, 
Inez,'  says  I,  'what  is  it  you  want  most  ? '  Didn't 
take  her  by  surprise.  Nothing  does.  'I  like  go 
by  picture  show  to-night,'  says  she.  'You  shall,' 
says  I,  'if  I  have  to  wash  every  dish  in  the  house/ 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Not  that  I  count  such  little  things  as  that.  I'm 
only  try  ng  to  show  you  how  I  started  on  this 
career  of  sunshine  dispenser,  guide,  and  guardian 
angel.  For  that's  what  it  amounts  to.  Ever 
since  then  I  ve  been  exploring  Inez  to  find  out 
what  she  wants,  and  getting  it  for  her.  And  it 
isn't  at  all  easy — the  finding  out.  For,  as  you 
see,  Inez  isn't  much  of  a  converser.  She  uses 
words  as  though  she  had  to  pay  an  income  tax 
on  every  one,  and  there  are  times  when  she'd 
make  the  Sphinx  seem  like  a  chatterbox.  Then, 
again,  she'll  spill  half  a  dozen  remarks,  all  in  one 
evening.  Yes,  Inez,  I'm  talking  about  you  again. 
I'm  about  through,  though.  You  see,  Miss  Well- 
by,  we'd  been  in  Coleraine  nearly  six  months 
when  Inez  heard  that  in  Duluth  there  were 
movies  every  night,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days  she  let  it  out  that  she  wanted  to  go  there. 
'You  shall,'  says  I.  My  theory  was  that  if  you 
were  willing  to  wait  on  table  you  could  go  any- 
where. You  can,  too.  I  believe  we  could  tour 
the  world. 

"But  with  Superior  Street  lined  with  movie 
houses,  and  a  big  armory  where  the  band  played 
for  public  dancing,  Inez  was  just  as  satisfied  as 
if  I'd  opened  the  pearly  gates  for  her.  That  is, 
she  was  until  she  got  a  letter  from  home  about 
this  Uncle  Nels.  'They  think  I  ought  to  find 
him,'  says  she.  'Why?'  says  I.  'Is  he  lost?' 

9 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

It  wasn't  that  exactly.  He  was  miss  ng,  though, 
and  had  been  for  several  years.  When  last  heard 
from  he'd  been  in  Duluth.  Well,  we  looked  up 
the  address,  but  he  wasn't  there.  A  man  said  he 
had  gone  to  New  York.  At  which  I  told  Inez 
she  might  as  well  cross  him  off  the  slate.  But  she 
shook  her  head.  She  had  to  find  Uncle  Nels. 
'Why  all  this  rush  of  affection  so  late?'  I  asks. 
'Is  he  such  a  star,  uncle?'  'He's  rich,  Uncle 
Nels,'  says  Inez.  'Gosh!'  says  I.  'That's  dif- 
ferent. A  rich  uncle  deserves  to  be  kept  track 
of.'  So  we  saved  and  saved  until  we  had  enough 
to  come.  And  here  we  are,  Miss  Wellby." 

I  suppose  she  should  have  shuddered  and  led 
us  sadly  but  firmly  out  to  where  the  brownstone 
steps  started  for  the  sidewalk  But  she  didn't. 
Maybe  it  was  the  smile  I  threw  in  at  the  finish. 
Oh,  my,  yes!  That's  the  easiest  thing  I  do,  that 
smile.  Not  one  of  these  heart  thrillers  you  get 
from  the  screen  favorites.  Nothing  like  that. 
Nobody's  going  to  leave  home  on  account  of  it. 
And  perhaps  it's  more  of  a  grin,  at  that.  Doesn't 
mean  much,  either.  It's  just  my  way  of  sig- 
naling to  the  human  race:  "Ah,  quit  kidding! 
You're  not  half  as  bad  as  you  look,  and  I'm  not, 
either.  So  there ! "  Anyway,  Miss  Wellby  smiled 
back  and  led  us  up  to  this  fourth  floor  room,  with 
two  single  iron  cots  and  a  window  overlooking 

a  double  row  of  back  yards. 

10 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"You  will  be  here  for  only  a  short  time,  I  pre- 
sume?" says  she. 

"Only  until  we  can  look  up  Uncle  Nels,"  says 
I.  "Then  I  suppose  he'll  send  the  limousine 
for  us." 

So  we  paid  a  week  in  advance  and  began  un- 
packing the  suitcases. 

"Six,  eight,  ten  hooks,"  says  I,  counting  'em, 
"and  three  hangers!  I'll  tell  you,  Inez,  while 
I'm  deciding  who  gets  the  odd  hanger  you  slip 
out  in  the  hall  and  bring  in  that  phone  directory. 
That  '11  be  the  quickest  way  to  locate  Uncle  Nols. 
Ought  to  be  Nelson  Petersen,  I  suppose?" 

"Petersen?"  echoes  Inez,  and  when  I  looked 
up  she  was  blinking  more  stupid  than  usual. 

"Indicating  what?"  says  I.  "Heard  the  name 
before,  haven't  you  ?  And  if  it  was  your  father's, 
then  his  brother  would  be — " 

But  Inez  is  moving  her  head  from  side  to  side. 
"Uncle  Nels,"  says  she,  "is  brother  to  ma." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "And  that  would  make  him — 
Nels  what?" 

"I — I  dunno,"  says  Inez. 

"Wha-a-at!"  I  gasps.  "Of  course  you  know. 
What  was  your  mother's  name  before  she  got  to 
be  Mrs.  Petersen?" 

"Olsen,"  says  Inez.  "But — but  Uncle  Nels, 
when  he  go  away  and  get  rich  he — he  change  his 
name.  I — I  forget." 

ii 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Hallup!"  says  I.  "That's  real  interesting, 
that  is.  Here  we  are,  come  all  the  way  to  New 
York  to  hunt  a  stray  uncle  who's  flagging  under 
a  name  you  don't  happen  to  remember  But  I 
expect  you  have  some  idea  what  he  looks  like?'* 

"No,*'  says  Inez.  "I  don't  see  him  since  I 
was  little." 

"Well!"  says  I,  settling  back  on  the  cot  bed 
and  gazing  at  her,  stunned.  "I  must  say  that 
makes  it  complicated." 

"Yes-s-s?"  says  Inez,  in  that  helpful  way  of 
hers. 

For  a  party  of  the  second  part,  that  can  be 
indicated  by  zero  minus  y,  I  take  pleasure  in 
presenting  Miss  Inez  Petersen,  when  she  drops 
into  a  mood  like  that.  For  the  next  forty  minutes 
or  so  I  jabs  questions  at  her  that  would  have 
qualified  me  for  a  third-degree  expert.  And  at 
the  finish  we  were  about  where  we  started,  only 
I  was  hoarse  and  Inez  had  chewed  the  flavor  all 
out  of  her  gum.  What  she  didn't  know  about 
this  missing  uncle  of  hers  was  amazing.  And  it 
wasn't  worrying  her  a  bit. 

Then,  when  I  was  about  to  give  up,  I  stubbed 
my  toe  on  what  looked  like  a  clue. 

"Inez,"  says  I,  turning  her  round  so  I  could 
look  square  into  the  peaceful  gray  eyes,  "can  it 
be  true  that  all  you've  been  feeding  me  about 
Uncle  Nels  was  just  bunk?" 

12 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"No,"  says  she.  "I  gotta  Uncle  Nels.  I 
wanna  find  him." 

"That's  on  record,  and  I  expect  I'll  have  to 
believe  part  of  it,"  says  I.  "But,  honest,  now, 
with  nothing  but  a  dim  memory  to  go  by,  how 
did  you  think  it  was  to  be  done?" 

Inez  simply  rolls  her  eyes  up  and  inspects  a 
leak  stain  in  the  ceiling.  It's  just  the  same  as 
cutting  the  wires  or  shutting  a  door  in  your  face. 
But  I  wouldn't  have  it  that  way. 

"Come  back,  Inez,"  says  I.  "And  tell  me, 
wasn't  the  big  idea  of  wishing  us  into  this  fool 
excursion  just  getting  to  New  York?" 

That  seems  to  strike  the  key  "Long  time  I 
wanna  go  by  New  York,"  she  admits. 

"But  why?"  I  insists.  "In  the  name  of  all 
that's  simple,  why?" 

At  that  Inez  ducks  her  chin,  as  kittenish  as  a 
cow  playing  tag  with  a  billy  goat.  She  almost 
works  up  a  blush,  too. 

"Aw,  I  dunno,"  says  she.  "But  so  much  hap- 
pens by  New  York — fine  fellers  in  full-dress  suits, 
swell  ladies  with  long  pearl  chains,  burglars 
breakin'  in,  policemen  smashin'  doors,  automo- 
beels  runnin'  round,  and — and  millionaires  get  in 
love  with  poor  working  girls.  Things  like  that 
all  the  time  in  New  York.  By  Duluth,  no." 

For  speed  and  duration  Inez  had  broken  her 
speech  record.  Also,  in  one  grand  mental  effort 

13 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

she  had  put  into  words  all  her  secret  and  un- 
guessed  yearnings.  It  was  like  flashing  a  search- 
light into  a  dark  room  that  you  thought  was 
empty,  and  discovering  it  to  be  full  of  junk 
theatrical  scenery. 

But  I  could  account  for  Inez  now.  She  had 
developed  a  movie  mind.  Somewhere  under- 
neath that  double  hank  of  wheat-colored  hair 
wound  like  a  wreath  around  her  head,  and  back 
of  those  Holstein  eyes,  was  a  space  that  had 
become  crowded  with  the  things  she  had  seen 
on  the  screen. 

No  use  telling  her  it  wasn't  all  true.  What  she 
had  seen  pictured  out  she  had  taken  in  as  trust- 
ful as  if  angels  had  spoken  from  the  sky.  More 
than  that,  from  the  things  I  had  done  for  her  in 
the  past  two  years,  she  was  sure  I  could  lead  her 
straight  to  where  all  her  rosy  dreams  would  come 
true.  Hadn't  I  taken  her  from  the  mine  boarding 
house  in  Coleraine  to  Druot's  in  Duluth,  and 
from  there  to  New  York?  Wouldn't  I  manage 
all  the  rest?  So  she  sits  placid  and  yanks  her 
gum. 

And  here  I  am,  stranded  in  a  fourth-floor  back 
on  West  Fifty-seventh  Street,  with  a  one-hundred- 
and-eighty-pound  Swede  girl  who  thought  all 
you  had  to  do  to  flop  into  gay  adventure  and 
ruddy  romance  was  to  find  the  way  to  Fifth 
Avenue ! 


MEET  INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Inez,"  says  I,  "I  don't  know  whether  to  list 
you  as  a  merry  jest  or  a  grim  tragedy.  Anyway, 
you're  a  world  beater.  I'm  not  forgetting, 
though,  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  would  be 
still  stuck  in  Dodge's  Clearing  as  fast  as  any 
spruce  stump.  I'm  not  the  forgetting  kind. 
That  is  why  I  have  made  it  my  life  job  to  give 
you  what  you  want.  Anyway,  I  shall  do  my  best. 

"If  I  may  say  so,  though,  it  strikes  me  that 
your  notions  of  coming  on  and  breaking  into  the 
giddy  whirl  of  the  metropolis  are  a  bit  high 
colored  and  a  little  impetuous.  I'm  not  sure. 
I've  been  wrong  about  you  once  or  twice  before. 
There's  no  telling.  It  may  be  that  somewhere 
in  all  this  messy,  noisy  burg  there  awaits  a 
handsome  young  plute  who  is  all  gussied  up  for 
passionate  wooing  beside  a  marble  fountain — 
waiting  for  you.  And  his  dark,  villainous  rival 
may  be  lurking  behind  the  potted  palms,  ready 
to  put  a  crimp  in  the  course  of  true  love.  I  can't 
say. 

"  But  if  they  were  holding  the  curtain  on  any 
such  act  just  because  you  hadn't  arrived,  they 
don't  need  to  wait  any  longer.  It's  only  a  case 
now  of  somebody's  handing  them  the  cue  that 
you're  here.  I've  brought  you  on,  and  we  are 
listening  for  the  cue.  As  for  my  part  of  it,  I  feel 
just  as  much  at  home  as  if  I'd  been  appointed 
guardian  to  a  trick  elephant  with  the  sleep- 

15 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

walking  habit.  All  the  same,  I'm  going  to  stand 
by  you,  and  if  anything  like  you've  got  on  your 
mind  is  going  to  be  pulled  off,  I'll  be  on  hand. 
Only,  Inez,  it  may  take  a  little  time." 

And  Inez,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  sagging  cot 
bed,  with  a  pleased,  simple  expression  fluttering 
across  her  big  pink-and-white  face,  nods  solemn 
and  satisfied. 

"Oh,  yes-s-s-s!"  says  she. 

She  had  been  in  New  York  nearly  two  hours 
and  no  tall,  dark  hero  in  a  shiny  limousine  had 
claimed  her  as  yet.  But  she's  a  patient  soul, 
Inez.  And  then,  she  has  her  gum. 


Chapter  II 
Listing  Inez  As  a  Joke 

IT'S  a  contract,  I'll  tell  the  judge.     What  I 

mean,  if  you  don't  get  me,  is  this  job  I've 
tackled  of  towing  an  overweight  Swede  girl 
around  New  York  and  giving  her  what  she  wants 
when  she  wants  it.  But  I've  made  a  swell  start, 
I'll  hand  myself  that  much. 

"Come,  Inez,"  says  I,  bright  and  early  the 
first  morning  after  we  landed,  "while  we're  wait- 
ing for  that  rich  Uncle  Nels  of  yours  to  have  it 
revealed  to  him  in  a  dream  that  his  favorite  niece 
is  waiting  to  be  discovered,  we  had  better  horn 
in  on  some  line  of  industry." 

Inez  peels  the  paper  off  two  slabs  of  gum,  tucks 
'em  in  between  a  dental  display  that  would  give 
joy  to  a  tooth-powder  firm,  gets  the  jaw  action 
going  rhythmical,  and  then  pauses  long  enough 
to  ask,  "You  no  think  we  find  Uncle  Nels  quick?" 

"No,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Not  with  any  great  sud- 
denness. Considering  the  fact  that  he's  traveling 
incog,  as  it  were,  and  that  you  wouldn't  know 
him  if  you  met  him  face  to  face,  the  chances  are 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

dead  against  any  prompt  reunion  of  the  Petersen 
family." 

Inez  blinks  vivacious,  like  an  eclipse  passing 
over  the  moon,  and  then  offers  this,  "Uncle  Nels 
he — he  had  whiskers." 

"That's  good  as  far  as  it  goes,"  says  I.  "But 
I  have  a  hunch,  Inez,  that  if  you  started  in  to 
take  a  whisker  census  of  this  town  you'd  get  some 
discouraged  before  you  finished.  Besides,  how 
do  you  know  that  the  set  Uncle  Nels  wore  when 
you  were  a  cute  little  girl  were  the  permanent 
kind?  Maybe  he  had  'em  amputated  when  he 
changed  his  name.  Is  that  all  you  can  remember 
about  him?" 

Inez  admits  that's  the  whole  story. 

"Then,  while  I'm  thinking  up  a  way  of  paging 
an  anonymous  uncle,"  says  I,  "I'm  afraid  we 
must  connect  with  regular  pay  envelopes  some- 
where, for  the  gold  reserve  in  the  Lisle  Thread 
National  is  running  low,  and  Mrs.  Wellby  isn't 
going  to  let  us  have  her  fourth-floor  back  just 
for  the  sake  of  being  entertained  by  your  brilliant 
repartee." 

"We  getta  job  ?  All  right,"  says  Inez,  chanting 
it  cheerful. 

"I  hope  so,"  says  I.    "Let's  take  a  look." 

So  we  wanders  out  to  where  Broadway  gets 
itself  lost  in  Columbus  Circle  and  drifts  along 
where  the  traffic  would  let  us.  Our  first  stop  is 

18 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

in  front  of  one  of  these  lunch  joints  where  they 
had  a  pancake  artist  browning  the  wheats  within 
eighteen  inches  of  our  noses  and  whole  rows  of 
tables  where  late  breakfasts  were  being  served. 

"How  about  this?"  says  I.  "We  know  how 
to  deal  'em  off  the  arm  and  tell  the  urn  man 
whether  to  draw  'em  black  or  half-and-half. 
Shall  we  brace  the  boss  for  a  chance  on  the  day 
shift?" 

She's  just  as  impetuous,  Inez,  as  a  way  freight 
on  an  upgrade,  with  sleet  on  the  rails.  After 
about  the  tenth  yank  on  the  gum  her  upper  lip 
starts  lifting  a  little,  and  by  watching  her  eyes  I 
can  see  that  she's  sizing  up  one  of  the  waitresses. 
You  couldn't  blame  her.  All  that  cerise  hair 
would  have  been  startling  enough  if  it  had  been 
done  plain,  but  twisted  and  ratted  the  way  it 
was,  it  sure  was  an  eyeful.  And  the  face  under 
it  was  a  hard  face. 

"I  not  like  that  one,"  says  Inez.  "She — she's 
stuck  up." 

"Something  like  that,  anyway,"  says  I.  "No, 
I  don't  think  she'd  be  a  matey  person  to  work 
with.  Besides,  this  looks  to  me  like  a  bunch  of 
nontippers.  Let's  move." 

We  must  be  an  impressive  pair,  or  words  to 
that  effect.  Anyway,  a  lot  of  folks  who  seemed 
in  a  hurry  to  get  somewhere  took  time  enough  off 
to  turn  for  a  second  look.  Maybe  it  was  that 

19 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

bargain-sale  blouse  which  Inez  was  sporting  in 
honor  of  the  occasion.  Kind  of  a  vivid  taste 
Miss  Petersen  has,  when  it  comes  to  dress  goods, 
and  while  I  do  my  best  to  keep  her  color  scheme 
toned  down,  there's  no  holding  her  if  a  shirtwaist 
strikes  her  fancy.  This  one  was  a  Harry  Lauder 
plaid,  mostly  greens  and  reds,  and  it  should  have 
been  presented  to  a  Siwash  squaw  to  wear  at  the 
annual  spring  potlach  or  some  such  festive  occa- 
sion. At  least,  it  shouldn't  have  been  worn  with 
an  Alice-blue  skirt  by  an  ash  blonde  with  a  thirty- 
eight  bust  measure.  Not  on  upper  Broadway. 
I  could  tell  that  just  by  the  way  some  of  those 
young  ladies  held  their  mouths  when  they  passed 
us. 

Not  that  I'm  any  mirror  of  fashion  myself. 
But  generally  I  stick  to  a  rusty-brown  homespun 
effect  that  doesn't  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  my 
cinnamon  hair  and  face  freckles,  and  while  I  may 
not  be  any  October  symphony,  I  kid  myself  that 
most  people  will  forgive  me  for  being  homely  if 
I'm  modest  about  it.  So  now  you  ought  to  have 
the  picture. 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  any  definite  ideas, 
Inez,"  says  I,  "as  to  what  kind  of  a  position 
you'd  care  to  accept?" 

"Me?  "says  Inez.     "No." 

"That's  helpful,"  says  I. 

But  it  isn't  two  minutes  later  before  she  has 
20 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

stopped  with  her  mouth  open.    "Look,"  says  she. 
"Pretty!    Yes?" 

I  steered  her  over  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
so  I  could  get  a  good  view  of  what  had  worked 
her  up  that  way.  And  what  do  you  guess  ?  It's 
a  white  tiled  hole-in-the-wall  where  they  sell  this 
orangeade  drink.  You  know.  On  the  white 
counter  is  a  big  gold-fish  globe  full  of  the  stuff, 
with  sliced  fruit  floating  tempting  and  a  couple 
of  dozen  real  oranges  piled  convincingly  around. 
The  pimple-faced  young  gent  in  charge  has  just 
struggled  into  a  dirty  white  duck  coat  and  is 
inspecting  himself  approving  in  the  mirror  that 
forms  the  back  of  the  establishment. 

"Very  neat  and  tasty,"  says  I.  "  But  he  doesn't 
seem  rushed  with  trade,  and  I  see  no  'Help 
Wanted'  sign  out." 

So  we  walks  on  a  few  blocks.  But  when  Inez 
gets  a  notion  running  on  that  single-track  mind 
of  hers,  nothing  but  a  burning  bridge  ahead  will 
get  her  to  switch. 

"It  would  be  swell,"  says  she,  "in  that  white 
place." 

And  I  had  to  explain  all  over  again  why  I 
thought  the  youth  with  the  pimple  face  didn't 
yearn  for  our  help.  What  you  really  need, 
though,  to  register  a  thought  with  Inez,  is  to 
lock  her  up  in  a  room  with  a  nonstop  record  that 
will  repeat  without  going  hoarse. 

21 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"We've  got  white  clothes,  too,"  insists  Inez. 

"We  have,"  says  I.    "Come  along  back." 

And  we  found  the  orangeade  place  livelier  than 
when  we  had  first  seen  it.  A  short,  stubby  man, 
with  crinkly  black  hair,  had  somehow  got  him- 
self in  behind  the  counter,  too,  and  he  was  shak- 
ing his  fist  menacing  at  the  young  gent  in  the 
near-white  coat.  He  was  telling  him  things. 

"Loafer!"  says  he.  "Twice  you  are  late  this 
week.  I  catch  you  again  this  morning.  Yes! 
And  when  you  come  what  you  do,  hey  ?  Nothing 
but  look  at  your  ugly  mug  in  the  glass.  For  two 
cents  I  give  you  the  chuck  out." 

"Here's  the  two,"  says  I,  stepping  in  and  shov- 
ing a  couple  of  pennies  across  the  counter. 

"Hey!"  says  he,  staring  at  me. 

"It's  your  proposition,"  says  I,  "but  I'm  will- 
ing to  finance  it.  I  think  you're  perfectly  right, 
too." 

"Say,"  growls  the  youth,  "who  told  you  to 
crash  in  on  this?" 

"Nobody,  dearie,"  says  I.  "Don't  you  know 
a  surprise  party  when  you  see  one?" 

"Some  fresh  Jane,  I'll  say,"  he  snarls.  "Eh, 
Mr.  Popogoulis?" 

"What  you  want,  you?"  demands  the  other. 

"Now  we're  getting  down  to  brass  tacks,  mis- 
ter," says  I.  "My  great  little  idea  was  to  boost 
along  the  vacancy  so  we  could  fill  it  for  you.  Inez 

22 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

and  me,  I  mean.  This  is  Inez,  browsing  on  her 
gum.  She  may  not  look  so  ambitious,  but  she's 
confided  in  me  that  a  career  as  dispenser  of 
orangeade  would  suit  her  exactly.  She'd  be  a 
wonder  at  it.  Only  you'd  have  to  take  the  pair 
of  us.  Well  ?  Is  it  a  trade  ? " 

At  which  Pimple  Face  snickers.  "Look  at  the 
freaks  that  wants  to  do  me  out  of  my  job,  Popo- 
goulis,"  says  he.  "Oh,  say!" 

And  Popogoulis  looks.  "Would  I  want  a 
voddy-ville  sketch  team  in  here  ? "  he  asks.  "  Say, 
who  are  you,  anyway  ? " 

"Sorry  I  haven't  my  card  case  along,"  says  I, 
"but  I'm  Trilby  May  Dodge,  just  in  from  Du- 
luth,  Minnesota.  And  my  blond  friend  is  Miss 
Inez  Petersen,  who  came  with  me.  We  always 
travel  double,  too.  But  listen,  Mr.  Popper- 
whosit,  we're  not  half  so  comical  as  we  may  look. 
These  are  our  Superior  Street  costumes  that  we 
haven't  had  time  to  change.  Give  us  a  chance 
to  get  into  some  snowy  white  uniforms  and  we'll 
be  different  parties.  We're  expert  soft-drink 
jugglers,  too.  Nearly  a  year  in  Druot's,  which  is 
the  classiest  ice-cream  parlor  between  Chicago 
and  the  North  Pole.  No  mistakes  in  orders,  no 
funny  work  with  the  cash  register.  Oh,  we're 
good,  mister." 

"Huh!"  says  he.     "You  say  it  easy." 

Which  is  where  Pimple  Face  tries  to  crowd  his 
3  23 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

luck.  Thought  he  had  the  boss  on  a  leash,  I  ex- 
pect. "Go  to  it,  if  you  think  this  pair  of  female 
hicks  could  do  better  than  me  and  Mike,"  says 
he.  "Help  yourself." 

"So-o-o?"  says  Popogoulis  looking  him  over 
cool.  "Thanks  for  nothing."  Then  he  turns  to 
me.  "How  much  you  want?"  he  asks. 

"We'll  talk  about  that  when  you've  checked 
up  sales  after  the  first  week,"  says  I. 

That  brings  a  satisfied  grunt  out  of  him. 

"When  you  could  go  on  the  job  ? "  he  demands. 

"Give  us  twenty  minutes  for  a  quick  shift  and 
we'll  be  here,"  says  I. 

Popogoulis  may  be  no  mental  speed  artist  as 
a  rule,  but  this  seems  to  be  his  day  for  prompt 
action.  "All  right,"  says  he,  and  whirls  on  the 
youth.  "Take  it  off,"  he  tells  him. 

"Eh?"  says  the  other. 

"You're  fired,"  says  Popogoulis.    "Get  out." 

He  got.  And  naturally  he  doesn't  ask  me  to 
kiss  him  good-by.  "You  fish-eyed  moll,"  says 
he.  "I'll  queer  you  for  this." 

"Oh,  chirk  up,  buddy,"  says  I.  "Any  blood 
purifier  firm  would  be  glad  to  use  that  face  of 
yours  as  a  before-taking  ad.  Try  'em  out." 

So  that's  how  we  happened  to  land  in  No.  47 
of  the  orangeade  chain,  and  got  started  as  a  pair 
of  Hebes  of  the  Golden  Bowl.  Seemed  a  little 
odd  at  first,  with  so  many  folks  staring  in  at  us 

24 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

at  such  close  range.  And  for  the  first  day  or  so, 
with  all  this  white  tiling  around,  I  couldn't  get 
over  the  idea  that  we  had  been  dropped  into  a 
bathroom  with  the  front  out.  But  it's  odd  how 
soon  you  can  get  used  to  anything,  isn't  it?  By 
the  middle  of  the  week  I  felt  as  though  I'd  always 
been  there,  began  to  get  a  line  on  most  of  the 
regular  customers,  and  could  ladle  out  the  thirst 
quenchers  as  fast  as  they  shoved  in  their  nickels. 

As  for  Inez,  she  was  as  contented  as  a  lady 
Holstein  resting  in  the  shade  at  noontime.  Wasn't 
there  a  movie  show  three  doors  above,  and  an- 
other two  blocks  down  the  street  ?  And  couldn't 
she  look  out  to  the  Circle  and  see  a  constant 
parade  of  taxicabs  and  limousines,  not  to  mention 
Fifth  Avenue  buses  and  sightseeing  chariots? 
And  who  knows  what  reams  of  romance  she  could 
read  in  every  one  of  them  ? 

During  the  dull  spells  I  would  watch  Inez 
curious,  as  she  stood  there  with  her  elbows  on 
the  counter,  gazing  out  that  way  and  yanking 
her  gum  slow  and  placid.  She  isn't  so  hard 
to  look  at,  you  know,  especially  in  that  near- 
nurse's  costume  with  the  white  straps  over  her 
shoulders,  and  the  little  white  cap  pinned  on 
top  of  all  that  pile  of  braided  wheat-colored  hair, 
and  her  white  throat  showing  up  strong  and 
round,  like  a  marble  pillar  in  front  of  a  bank.  Of 
course,  there's  a  good  deal  of  her.  It's  fairly  well 

25 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

distributed,  though.  And  that  strawb'ry-and- 
vanilla-mixed  complexion  of  hers  helps  some. 

"I  must  say,  Inez,"  I  tells  her  "you  do  fit 
in  well  with  the  background.  Like  you  belonged. 
A  regular  queen  of  the  booth,  you  are." 

"Yes-s-s?"  says  she,  smiling  pleased.  "You 
— you  look  nice,  too." 

"Me!"  says  I.  "Oh,  sure!  I'm  a  regular 
home  wrecker,  Inez.  That  is,  I  might  be  if  it 
wasn't  for  my  plain  features  and  my  up-and- 
down  figure,  and  the  green  gooseberry  eyes.  Out- 
side of  those  few  items  I'm  a  perfect  vamp.  I'm 
glad  you  noticed  it.  Nobody  else  has  up  to  date. 
Just  for  that  I'll  spell  you  while  you  slip  out  for 
an  early  lunch." 

Then  I  began  to  wonder  if  this  career  as  a 
modern  Ruth  at  the  well  of  orangeade  was  going 
to  satisfy  her  yearning  for  adventure,  such  as 
she'd  sketched  out  to  me  when  I  discovered  that 
she  had  a  moving-picture  mind.  Once  I  put  it 
up  to  her. 

"How  about  it,  Inez?"  says  I.  "Are  you  find- 
ing New  York  as  full  of  thrills  as  you  thought  it 
would  be?" 

"Fine  place,  New  York,"  says  Inez. 

"But  nothing  real  exciting  has  happened  to 
you  yet,"  I  suggests. 

"Oh,  it  comes — bym-by,"  says  Inez. 

So  why  disturb  a  childlike  trust  like  that?  I 
26 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

ask  you.  I  might  have  pointed  out  that  serving 
nut  sundaes  and  hot  chocolate  on  Superior  Street 
was  almost  as  hectic  a  pastime  as  dealing  out 
cold  drinks  on  Broadway,  and  that  you  could  go 
on  doing  either  for  a  long  time  without  getting 
mixed  up  in  what  a  movie  director  would  call  a 
big  punch  scene.  But  I  didn't.  I  just  smiled  to 
think  how  simple  she  was  in  the  head. 

Never  again,  though.  Listing  Inez  as  a  joke 
is  a  poor  hunch.  For  look !  Well,  it  wasn't  over 
two  days  later  that  we  took  a  little  after-supper 
stroll,  just  to  get  the  air  and  make  us  tired  enough 
to  forget  the  lumps  in  the  mattress  when  we 
finally  took  to  the  cots.  Of  course  we'd  had  the 
usual  debate  over  it  first. 

"By  Eight'  Avenue,"  suggests  Inez,  "is  a  Mr. 
Bill  Hart  show." 

"Please,  Inez!"  says  I.  "Not  to-night.  If 
you  knew  how  little  I  cared  for  that  man.  Gosh! 
Say,  I'll  bet  I've  seen  Bill  Hart  ride  a  million 
miles  and  roll  four  million  cigarettes  on  the  gal- 
lop. Let's  give  him  a  week's  rest." 

Inez  pouts  disappointed,  but  two  minutes  later 
she  has  another  brilliant  thought.  "Up  by 
Broadway,"  says  she,  "Mister  Doug-las-s-s  Fair- 
banks is  in  six-reeler." 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "he  usually  is.  And  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  he'll  spring  that  grin  of  his,  and 
climb  up  the  front  of  fake  palaces,  and  push  the 

27 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

villain  off  of  a  roof,  and  work  up  the  final  fade- 
out,  where  he  goes  to  a  tight  clinch  with  the 
Princess  of  Angostura.  Then  there  '11  be  a  news 
reel  showing  how  they  laid  the  cornerstone  of 
the  new  Masonic  temple  at  Ellenville,  New  York, 
and  a  glimpse  of  President  Harding  taking  the 
oath  of  office,  and  a  few  hundred  feet  of  film 
depicting  the  cute  antics  of  a  horse-fly  feeding 
her  young.  Have  a  heart,  Inez.  Besides,  you 
know  we  agreed  that  every  other  night  was  about 
all  our  finances  would  stand." 

Inez  can't  deny  it,  but  she  sulks  for  the  next 
ten  minutes  until  she  decides  to  console  herself 
by  combining  two  slabs  of  wintergreen  flavor 
with  one  of  pepsin;  after  which  she  pins  on  her 
hat  and  allows  me  to  lead  her  east  across  Broad- 
way and  away  from  the  lure  of  the  silver  screen. 
And  it  wasn't  long  before  I  had  her  interested  in 
our  favorite  game  of  picking  out  a  trousseau 
from  the  shop  windows.  We're  reckless  shoppers 
when  we  let  ourselves  go  that  way.  Especially 
Inez.  Her  taste  seems  to  run  to  cloth-of-gold 
evening  gowns  and  ermine  capes  with  lots  of  real 
tails  on  them.  Also  three-inch  dinner  rings  and 
long  pearl  ropes.  I've  often  wondered  how  she 
would  really  look  in  such  an  outfit  if  by  any 
miracle  she  could  ever  get  one  on.  I  suspect 
she'd  have  the  Queen  of  Sheba  looking  like  a 
country  dressmaker  tackling  the  Monday  wash. 

28 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

"And  all  day,"  Inez  announces,  "I  ride  up 
and  down  in  limousine." 

"Oh,  quite  so,"  says  I.  "That's  part  of  the 
picture." 

"Then  for  dinner,"  adds  Inez,  "big  steak  with 
plenty  fried  onions.  Lotta  cream  puffs,  too." 

"Now  you  have  done  it,"  says  I.  "You've 
made  me  so  hungry  that  nothing  but  a  sweitzer 
sandwich  and  half  of  a  fat  dill  pickle  will  bring 
peace  to  my  tortured  soul.  And  I  think  there's 
a  delicatessen  store  back  on  Sixth  Avenue  in  the 
block  below  this.  Come." 

But  Inez  wasn't  to  be  hurried  away  from  a 
window  where  a  beaded  evening  gown  hung 
twinkly  and  shimmery  against  a  background  of 
black  velvet. 

"Well,  then,"  says  I,  "you  drift  along  as  far 
as  the  next  corner,  while  I  dash  around  and  lay 
in  supplies  before  they  close  up.  I'll  be  back 
here  inside  of  five  minutes.  You'll  be  all  right, 
won't  you?" 

"Me?  "says  Inez.     "Sure!" 

Those  stores  are  seldom  just  where  you  think 
they  are,  though.  This  one  had  dodged  two 
blocks  out  of  the  way.  And  the  old  frau  with  the 
dried-apple  face  and  the  sage-green  wig  certainly 
took  her  time  about  making  up  those  cheese 
sandwiches.  Forgot  to  put  on  the  mustard  until 
after  she  had  'em  all  wrapped  up,  at  that. 

29 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

So  it  must  have  been  nearly  fifteen  minutes 
before  I  came  scurrying  up  to  the  window  where 
the  beaded  gown  was  still  hanging.  But  no  Inez 
was  gawping  at  it.  She  wasn't  anywhere  in  sight, 
either  up  or  down  the  avenue,  and  Inez  is  visible 
at  quite  a  distance,  you  know,  even  in  a  crowd. 
By  the  time  I  had  walked  two  blocks  up  and 
one  down  without  finding  her,  I  suppose  I  was 
a  little  panicky.  Anyway,  what  I  said  to  that 
boneheaded  night  watchman  who  was  guarding 
a  pile  of  bricks  and  sand  wasn't  particularly 
sane. 

"You  haven't  seen  my  friend  Inez,  have  you?" 
I  asked. 

"Which?"  says  he,  through  a  corncob  pipe. 

"Big  Swede  girl  with  yellow  hair?"  I  adds. 

"Oh,  that  one!"  says  he.  "She  ducked  across 
the  street,  over  there.  Just  missed  gettin' 
bumped  by  a  taxi,  too.  Red  feathers  on  her 
hat." 

"That's  Inez,"  says  I,  and  darts  in  the  direc- 
tion he  was  pointing  his  thumb. 

I  could  see  a  house  front  that  was  well  lighted 
and  a  sidewalk  canopy  set  up.  Somebody  having 
a  coming-out  party,  or  announcing  an  engage- 
ment. And  Inez  must  have  seen  what  she  would 
call  "  swell  people  "  arriving  or  going  away.  That 
would  be  enough  for  her.  I  should  have  to  talk 
to  Inez  again  about  the  danger  of  trying  to  rush 

30 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

across  Fifth  Avenue  hen  fashion,  without  wait- 
ing for  the  traffic  lulls.  About  wandering  alone, 
too,  at  this  hour  of  the  night. 

I  had  gone  nearly  to  the  middle  of  this  side 
street  and  was  almost  opposite  the  canopied  en- 
trance, looking  into  every  doorway  in  the  hope 
of  finding  Inez  staring  out  from  behind  a  shadow, 
when  I  noticed  this  little  group  of  folks  that 
seemed  to  be  milling  around  so  odd  and  senseless. 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  podgy  little  man  in  evening 
clothes  who  was  hopping  about  on  his  toes  as  if 
he  was  tryin'  to  jump  into  his  silk  hat,  which  he 
had  dropped  on  the  sidewalk.  Then  there  was  a 
large,  fat  woman,  with  an  opera  cape  hanging 
from  one  shoulder  and  her  arms  waving  wildly 
as  she  clawed  at  a  slim  young  chap  who  was 
tugging  to  get  away.  Also,  there  was  a  fellow  in 
a  chauffeur's  uniform,  who  edged  in  and  then 
dodged  back  out  of  reach.  And  they  were  all  so 
busy  and  silent  about  it.  Not  a  word  spoken. 
Only  now  and  then  a  heavy  puff,  evidently  from 
the  fat  woman,  or  a  grunt  from  one  of  the  men. 
I  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was  all  about. 

Then  the  slim  chap  gave  a  final  whirl,  hit  the 
fat  woman  in  the  chest  with  his  elbow,  kicked 
vicious  at  the  chauffeur,  and  broke  loose  com- 
pletely. He  was  legging  it  toward  the  East  River 
when  the  screams  started.  The  fat  woman  had 
found  her  voice. 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Police!  Police!"  she  squealed.  "He— he's 
got  my  jewel  bag!" 

Even  that  didn't  seem  to  disturb  anyone.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  nobody  in  sight  to  be 
disturbed.  I  heard  a  front  window  shoved  up. 

"Stop  him!  Stop  the  thief!"  shouted  the  fat 
woman.  "Police!" 

But  no  police  came  on  the  run,  or  even  saun- 
tered up.  Any  more  than  they  would  if  you'd 
staged  such  an  affair  on  Main  Street  in  Tama- 
rack Junction  when  Constable  Sol  Heffner  was 
playing  pinochle  in  the  back  of  Feltner's  general 
store.  And  meanwhile  the  slim  chap  was  making 
a  speedy  getaway. 

I  suppose  I  was  watching  him  run,  kind  of 
excited  and  nervous,  but  not  thinking  of  doing 
anything  in  particular,  and  perhaps  rather  hoping 
that  he  wouldn't  trip  or  stub  his  toe,  when  I  saw 
a  bulky  female  figure  step  out  directly  in  his 
path,  open  her  arms,  and  fold  him  in.  It  was 
almost  as  though  he  had  jumped  through  a  trap 
door.  Anyway,  both  of  them  went  down,  and  I 
could  dimly  see  them  rolling  about  the  sidewalk. 

"He's  caught!  He's  caught!"  shrieks  the  fat 
woman,  hysterical.  "See,  Junius?  Now,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  do  something." 

The  podgy  little  man  didn't  seem  so  anxious. 
However,  he  picked  up  his  silk  hat,  gave  it  a 
hasty  brush  on  his  sleeve,  and  started,  with  th« 

32 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

fat  woman  hanging  to  his  arm,  her  opera  cape 
dragging  behind.  The  chauffeur  went  along,  too. 
I  hadn't  been  asked,  but  I  fell  in  behind.  I 
wasn't  sure,  but  there  seemed  to  be  something 
familiar  about  that  husky  figure  which  had 
folded  in  the  runaway  so  thoroughly.  Of  course, 
it  might  not  be  Inez — 

But  it  was.  When  the  four  of  us  reached  the 
spot  and  surrounded  her,  she  had  squirmed  on 
top  and  was  sitting  jauntily  on  this  perfect 
stranger,  who  was  considerable  flattened  amid- 
ships and  was  groaning  feebly:  "Take  her  off! 
Oh,  take  her  off!" 

As  for  Inez,  her  best  hat  was  a  total  wreck, 
one  sleeve  of  her  shirtwaist  was  ripped  at  the 
shoulder,  and  she  was  breathing  rather  heavy. 

"Oh,  Inez!"  says  I.    "Are  you  hurt?" 

"No,"  says  Inez.  "But  ay — ay  swallow  my 
gum." 

"You  brave,  noble  girl!"  breaks  in  the  fat 
lady.  "You  have  saved  my  jewels.  See,  Juinus, 
he  still  has  the  bag  in  his  hand.  Take  it  away 
from  him." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  says  Junius.  "But  would  it 
not  be  better  to  get  an  officer  first?  Otto,  see  if 
you  cannot  find  a  policeman." 

"And  leave  us  at  the  mercy  of  this  robber?" 
protests  the  fat  lady.  "Why,  he  might  get 
away." 

33 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Not  him!'*  says  Inez,  jouncing  up  and  down 
a  little.  "Aye  got  him,  all  right." 

"O-o-o-o!"  gurgles  the  jewel  snatcher. 

"Don't  worry,  lady,"  says  I.  "He  couldn't 
be  safer  if  he  was  spiked  to  the  sidewalk.  Inez 
will  hold  him." 

"Then  you  know  this  heroic  young  person?" 
says  she.  "Who  is  she?" 

"Miss  Inez  Petersen,"  says  I.  "She's  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  there's  one  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds  of  her." 

"I'll  take  the  car  and  bring  back  a  cop,"  vol- 
unteers Otto. 

It  took  him  nearly  ten  minutes,  at  that,  but 
finally  he  rolled  up  with  one  and  we  helped  Inez 
to  her  feet  while  the  officer  yanked  up  the  breath- 
less thief. 

"Huh!"  says  the  policeman.  "Slim  Joe,  eh? 
Only  two  months  out  of  Sing  Sing  and  at  it  again, 
are  you?  Well,  it's  headquarters  for  yours, 
Joe." 

"Any — anywheres  you  say,"  pants  Joe.  "Only 
don't  let  that  baby  elephant  sit  on  me  again." 

At  that  I  tried  to  lead  Inez  away,  but  the 
policeman  wouldn't  let  me.  He  said  she  had  to 
go  along  with  the  others  to  tell  the  Chief  all 
about  it. 

"Never  mind,  young  lady,"  says  Junius.  "We 
will  see  that  she  gets  home  all  right." 

34 


LISTING  INEZ  AS  A  JOKE 

And  the  next  thing  I  knew  they'd  all  piled  into 
the  limousine  and  were  gone.  There  didn't  seem 
to  be  room  for  me,  so  I  walked  back  to  West 
Fifty-seventh  Street  and  waited.  It  was  a  long 
wait,  too.  I  finished  my  half  of  the  sandwiches 
and  pickle  and  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  my 
teeth  out  of  the  rest,  for  somehow  this  adventure 
stuff  had  worked  up  an  appetite.  It  got  to  be 
twelve  o'clock,  then  half  past,  and  no  Inez.  I 
was  just  beginning  to  wonder  if  she  had  been 
locked  up,  too,  when  I  heard  her  gentle  tread  on 
the  stairs. 

"Well!"  says  I,  throwing  open  the  door. 

And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  red  feather  on  the 
wrecked  lid  I'd  hardly  have  known  her  at  that, 
for  she's  wearing  a  gorgeous  silk  opera  cape. 

"For  the  love  of  Pete!"  says  I.  "Where  did 
you  collect  that?" 

"Mis'  Junius  Stokes  she  make  me  present," 
announces  Inez.  "Swell,  eh?" 

"It's  all  of  that,"  says  I.  "But  where  were 
you  so  long?" 

"Oh,  we  go  to  big  place,  lotta  policemans," 
says  Inez.  "Funny  talk.  They  tell  me  I  must 
go  on  force  to  catch  thieves." 

"There's  more  truth  than  comedy  about  that," 
says  I.  "I  expect  you're  hungry,  after  all  that. 
I  saved  a  sandwich  for  you." 

"Huh!  "says  Inez.  "Sandwich!  No.  I  been 
35 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

to  fine  big  hotel.  Lobster,  ice  cream,  'n'  every- 
thing. Mister  Stokes  buy  me  what  I  want. 
Mis'  Stokes,  she  gets  me  new  hat  to-morrow, 
too.  And  I  ride  all  the  way  in  limousine!" 

"Gosh!"  says  I.  "Right  in  with  the  automo- 
bility!  I  take  it  all  back,  Inez,  you're  a  winner. 
Made  a  hit  right  off  the  bat,  didn't  you?" 

"Nice  man,  that  Joe,"  says  Inez. 

"You  mean  Junius,  I  suppose,"  says  I.  "Mr. 
Stokes — the  podgy  one  ? " 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "He's  all  right,  too," 
says  she,  "but  Joe,  the  slim  one — "  and  then  she 
ducks  her  chin  coy. 

"Hal-hip!"  I  gasps.  "If  she  hasn't  fallen  for 
the  purse  snatcher!  Say,  Inez,  haven't  you  any 
discretion?" 

"He — he  got  nice  eyes,"  insists  Inez. 

"Good  night!"  says  I,  meaning  every  word  of 
it.  For  I  A.M.  is  no  time  to  start  in  prying  a  fool 
idea  out  of  such  a  slow-working  mind  as  that. 
Besides,  with  this  hero  of  hers  locked  up  so  tight, 
why  worry  ? 

But  I  can  see  from  here  that  Inez  and  I  have 
no  dull  gray  future  ahead  of  us.  Not  when  she 
can  pick  up  adventure  and  romance  while  I'm 
around  the  corner  after  cheese  sandwiches. 


Chapter  III 
Inez  Gets  Her  Wish 

OAY,  the  more  I  trail  around  with  Inez  the 
^  less  I  get  acquainted  with  her.  That  may 
seem  odd,  too.  But  it's  a  fact.  First  off  I 
thought  I  was  the  master  mind  in  this  sketch 
team  that's  come  down  from  Duluth  to  explore 
New  York  for  Uncle  Nels  and  other  curiosities. 
I  had  a  hunch  that  it  was  Trilby  May  Dodge 
who  was  furnishing  the  brains  and  Inez  the 
weight.  Every  now  and  then,  though,  I  get  a 
rude  jolt  which  makes  me  suspect  that  Inez, 
with  that  single-track,  movieized  mind  of  hers, 
isn't  to  be  listed  as  just  so  much  excess  baggage. 
Take  this  matter  of  her  missing  Uncle  Nels, 
for  instance.  Now,  of  course,  I've  crossed  him 
off  the  slate  long  ago.  From  the  very  start,  after 
she'd  admitted  that  he  was  flagging  under  another 
name  and  that  she  couldn't  remember  what  he 
looked  like  exactly,  except  that  he  had  whiskers 
once,  why,  naturally  I'd  say  she  had  as  much 
chance  of  finding  him,  if  he  still  existed,  as  she 
would  of  retrieving  a  safety  pin  dropped  from  a 
North  River  ferryboat. 

37 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Yet  when  I  suggest  that  this  orangeade  booth 
job  of  ours  is  about  as  uncertain  as  that  of  any 
hold-over  postmaster  in  a  hungry  Republican 
district,  and  that  we  ought  to  be  saving  up 
against  the  day  when  Mr.  Popogoulis  might  drift 
in  with  a  grouch  and  give  us  both  the  gate  Inez 
merely  hunches  her  broad  shoulders  and  springs 
that  stupid  pastoral  stare  of  hers. 

For  one  item,  Inez  has  graduated  from  the 
Eighth  Avenue  arcades,  where  you  can  see  six- 
reel  thrillers  for  thirty  cents,  including  war  tax, 
and  she  has  developed  a  taste  for  center-aisle 
seats  in  the  big  Broadway  movie  houses,  where 
a  perfectly  elegant  gent  in  full  evening  dress 
leads  the  big  orchestra  and  they  put  on  the  tenor 
and  soprano  se'ections  with  special  scenery. 
She's  strong  for  the  organ  numbers,  too. 

"Swell  music,"  says  Inez.  "Makes  me  feel 
good  here."  And  she  pats  her  skirt  band  to  indi- 
cate the  exact  spot. 

"Now  I  know  what  they  mean  by  drinking  it  in," 
says  I.  "You  swallow  it  whole,  don't  you,  Inez? 
But  the  fact  remains  that  for  these  frills  they 
nick  us  just  twice  as  much  and  you  want  to  go 
twice  as  often.  It  may  be  true  that  heaven  pro- 
tects the  working  girl,  but  that's  as  far  as  it  goes. 
How  she  manages  what  comes  in  the  pay  envelope 
is  up  to  her." 

Whether  any  of  that  sank  in  or  not  I  can't  say, 
38 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

for  Inez  chews  placid  on  her  gum  awhile,  and  then 
remarks,  cheerful,  "Well,  I  got  rich  uncle,  any- 
how." 

"So  I've  heard  you  state,"  says  I.  "He's 
about  as  much  use  to  us  just  at  present,  though, 
as  the  fame  and  fortune  which  I'm  dead  sure  is 
coming  to  me.  We've  still  got  both  to  find  before 
we  cash  in  on  'em." 

"But  I  like  thinkin'  'bout  Uncle  Nels,"  insists 
Inez. 

"Help  yourself,  then,"  says  I,  "only  ease  off 
on  the  sundry-expense  account." 

Not  that  we  hadn't  worked  up  a  good  business 
at  the  drink  booth.  I  knew  we  had,  for  I'd  dis- 
covered a  daily  sales  slip  tucked  back  of  the  cash 
register,  and  I  could  figure  where  our  average 
was  running  nearly  40  per  cent  higher  than  any- 
thing Pimple  Face  and  his  side  kick  had  been 
able  to  show.  But  does  Boss  Popogoulis  loosen 
up  in  proportion?  He  does  not.  When  I  give 
him  a  gentle  hint  that  there  ought  to  be  a  little 
commission  coming  our  way  he  simply  hunches 
his  neck  down  into  his  collar,  and  those  black 
eyes  of  his  take  on  a  hard  glitter. 

"I  can  get  plenty  girls  in  here  for  less,"  says  he. 

"Quite  so,"  says  I.  "But  not  a  pair  of  cross- 
mated  blondes  like  us,  who  '11  ring  up  so  many 
nickels  in  a  day.  Why,  say,  mister,  let  me  tell 
you  something.  There  are  more  than  two  dozen 
4  39 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

young  hicks  and  as  many  more  old  sports  who've 
got  the  Inez  habit  already." 

"Hey?  "says  he.    "What  is  that?" 

"Oh,  the  habit  of  drifting  around  here  at  least 
twice  a  day,"  says  I.  "Think  they've  acquired 
a  chronic  thirst  for  orangeade?  Well,  hardly! 
Most  of  'em  come  to  tell  Inez  what  a  lovely  girl 
she  is,  and  if  she  happens  to  let  up  on  the  pepsin 
long  enough  to  give  'em  one  of  her  broad-gauge 
smiles  and  show  her  cheek  dimples,  they're  as 
good  as  booked  for  regular  customers.  When 
she  misses  I'm  liable  to  edge  in  with  a  few  frivol- 
ous remarks  that  makes  each  one  think  he's  a 
home  wrecker.  That's  the  secret  of  our  success, 
you  know.  Team  work.  They  look  at  Inez  and 
listen  to  me,  and  that's  why  the  nickels  roll  in. 
Come,  now,  Popogoulis;  slip  in  a  couple  more 
denarii  next  Saturday." 

He  growls  that  he'll  think  it  over,  which  isn't 
a  bit  promising. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  Miss  Wellby  insists  on 
shifting  us  to  a  better  room  on  the  second  floor, 
at  three  bucks  more  per  week.  "You'll  be  so 
much  more  comfortable  there,"  says  she,  "and 
it  will  look  better  if  Miss  Petersen  finds  her 
Uncle  Nels  and  he  comes  to  call." 

"Inez,"  says  I,  "have  you  been  telling  Miss 
Wellby  about  your  rich  uncle  ? " 

Inez  admits  that  she  has. 
40 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

"That  was  reckless,"  says  I.  "Now,  we've 
got  to  live  up  to  him,  and  I  don't  quite  see  how 
it's  to  be  done." 

But  you  can't  worry  Inez  with  little  trifles  like 
that.  She's  not  the  worrying  kind.  She  simply 
rolls  her  big  gray  eyes  around  our  new  quarters 
approving,  and  remarks:  "Nice  room.  Lotta 
hooks  in  closet.  Three  windows." 

"And  the  bath  only  two  doors  down  the  hall, 
don't  omit  that,"  says  I.  "  But  don't  enlarge  on 
this  Uncle  Nels  tale  any  more  than  you  can  help, 
for  I  understand  the  singer  person  is  checking 
out  from  the  first  floor  suite  next  week,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  called  on  to  finance  that." 

"Oh,  well!"  says  Inez,  starting  to  uncoil  that 
double  hank  of  wheat-colored  hair. 

It  was  only  the  next  afternoon,  too,  while  old 
Popogoulis  was  making  his  daily  prowl  around 
the  booth,  that  the  Junius  Stokeses  roll  up  in 
their  limousine.  You  remember?  They're  the 
ones  that  Inez  got  mixed  up  with  the  night  she 
caught  the  purse  snatcher  on  the  fly  and  sat  on 
him  until  Junius  found  a  cop.  And  at  the  time 
Mrs.  Stokes  had  promised  to  buy  Inez  a  new 
hat  for  the  one  that  was  wrecked  during  the 
scrimmage.  I  got  the  connection  the  minute  I 
saw  'em  drive  up.  And,  boss  or  no  boss,  I  wasn't 
going  to  have  Inez  miss  a  chance  to  collect. 

"Run  along,  Inez,"  I  says  to  her.     "I  can 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

handle  the  business  until  the  night  shift  comes 
on,  and  I'm  sure  Mr.  Popogoulis  won't  mind." 

You  should  have  seen  him  stare  as  Junius  hops 
out  gallant  and  eases  her  into  the  limousine. 

"  I  know !  "he  whispers,  husky. "  The  rich  uncle ! " 

"What  a  close  guesser  you  are!"  says  I.  "She 
must  have  told  you  ? " 

He  wags  his  head  wise.  "Lucky  girl,  Miss 
Petersen,"  says  he. 

"Looks  that  way,  don't  it?"  says  I. 

"Say,"  he  asks,  confidential,  "maybe  he  comes 
around  again,  sometimes?" 

"Can  happen,"  says  I. 

"I  like  to  meet  him,"  says  Popogoulis. 

"Well,  that's  something  else  again,"  says  I. 
"What's  the  grand  little  idea?" 

"Business  proposition,"  says  Popogoulis. 
"Fine  corner  property  I  can  get  on  long  lease  up 
Broadway.  But  it's  big  building.  I'd  need  more 
money  to  swing  it.  Maybe — maybe  Miss  Peter- 
sen's  uncle  likes  to  make  good  investment.  If  I 
could  have  some  talk  with  him — " 

"Might  be  fixed — in  time,"  says  I.  "I  don't 
know.  Meanwhile,  how  about  that  little  salary 
boost  you've  been  chewing  over  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  says  he,  impatient.  "You  get  it 
to-morrow.  I  make  it  three  more." 

"Fair  enough,"  says  I.    "And  I'll  have  speech 

with  Inez  about  her  uncle." 

42 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

I  hope  I  didn't  let  on  how  thrilled  I  was  about 
this  raise,  but  honest  to  goodness,  I  had  all  I 
could  do  to  keep  from  fox-trotting  across  West 
Fifty-seventh  Street  when  I  turned  over  the 
shop  to  the  night  force  and  started  for  the  board- 
ing house.  I  expected  to  find  Inez  with  her  nose 
against  the  dining  room  door,  waiting  for  the 
signal.  She  generally  is,  you  know. 

But  not  this  time.  She's  up  in  our  room  very 
much  deshabille,  as  the  divorce  accounts  put  it, 
and  she's  gazing  round-eyed  at  two  evening 
gowns  spread  out  on  the  bed.  I  suppose  I  did 
the  open-face  act  myself  for  a  minute  or  two 
before  I  recovered  from  the  jolt. 

"For  the  love  of  Lucille!"  I  gasps.  "What's 
all  this,  Inez?" 

"  See ! "  says  she.  "  Dinner  dresses.  Pretty,  yes  ? " 

"Not  a  doubt,"  says  I,  pickin'  one  up  and 
running  my  fingers  over  the  beadwork.  "But 
that  doesn't  tell  me  whence  and  whither.  Left 
here  by  mistake,  I  suppose  ? " 

"No,"  says  Inez,  "I  bring  'em." 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "You  don't  mean  that — see 
here,  Inez,  let's  end  the  suspense.  Tell  me  you 
didn't  yield  to  temptation  and  throw  a  brick 
through  some  show  window." 

"Me?"  says  Inez,  trying  to  look  shocked.  "I 
wou  dn't  do  that,  ever.  Mis'  Stokes  she  send 
dresses.  We  wear  'em  to  dinner  party." 

43 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Hal-lup!"  says  I.  "Now  you're  exceeding 
the  speed  limit.  I'm  four  blocks  behind  you  and 
dropping  back  every  second.  What  dinner 
party?  When?" 

"To-night,"  says  Inez,  "by  Mis'  Stokes 's 
house.  Swell,  eh?" 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "Also  a  bit  unexpected. 
But  what's  it  all  about,  if  you  don't  mind  my 
asking  ? " 

And  little  by  little  Inez  sketches  the  whole 
story  for  me.  It  had  been  while  she  was  at  the 
milliner's  trying  on  hats  that  Mrs.  Stokes  had 
suggested  her  coming  home  for  dinner  with  them. 
At  least,  she  thought  it  was  the  lady,  although 
maybe  it  was  Junius. 

"The  milliner  lady,"  says  Inez,  "she  take  my 
hair  down  and — and  twist  it  up  funny.  Then 
she  put  on  hat  and  Miss  Stokes  she  pat  her 
hands  and  say,  'Look,  Junius,  how  perfect-ly 
stunning!'  And  Mister  Junius  he  say,  'Yes,* 
and — and  then  they  talk  about  dinner.  They 
want  me  to  bring  Uncle  Nels,  too." 

"Oh-ho!"  says  I.  "You'd  been  telling  the 
Stokeses  about  your  rich  uncle,  had  you?" 

"Sure!"  says  Inez,  ducking  her  head  coy. 

"But  when  you  were  asked  to  produce  him 
how  did  you  squirm  out  of  it?"  I  insists. 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez.  "I  don't  say  much, 
except  that  I  Ike  to  have  you  come,  too." 

44 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

"How  clever!"  says  I.     "And  then  what?" 

"Mister  Junius  say  'all  right,*"  says  she, 
"and  Miss  Stokes  she  take  dresses  from  trunk 
and — and  the  limousine  comes  quarter  to  seven." 

"Could  anything  be  simpler?"  says  I.  "I  ask 
you,  now.  We  have  exactly  half  an  hour  to  find 
Uncle  Nels  and  fit  ourselves  into  those  evening 
gowns.  I'm  sorry  to  say,  Inez,  it  can't  be  done; 
particularly  the  Uncle  Nels  part." 

"I  don't  say  I  bring  him,"  says  Inez,  starting 
to  pout.  "And  I  want  to  go  to  dinner  party. 
You  oughta  see.  Swell  house.  Butler  'n'  every- 
thing." 

"That  settles  it,  Inez,"  says  I.  "In  all  our 
young  lives  we've  never  been  buttled  over  once, 
have  we?  And  we  may  never  have  the  chance 
again.  Besides,  the  worst  they  can  do  will  be 
to  throw  us  out.  Shall  we  risk  it?" 

Inez  nods  as  brisk  as  she  knows  how,  and  in 
her  excitement  slips  back  into  her  Minnesota 
dialect.  "Ay  tank  ay  wearthepink  one,"  says  she. 

"Just  a  minute,"  says  I,  holding  it  up  to  get 
the  effect.  "The  saints  defend  us!  Not  the 
pink  one,  Inez.  It's  too  scant  above  the  waist. 
Notice  where  those  shoulder  straps  start  from. 
Why,  you'd  look  like  the  weekly  beef  ration 
arriving  at  an  army  post.  And  goodness  knows 
there's  little  enough  of  this  black  net  affair,  but 
at  least  there  is  material  that  passes  for  sleeves. 

45 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Slip  it  on  and  let's  view  the  result,  while  I  see  if 
my  native  modesty  will  survive  the  shock  of  this 
pink  scandal." 

"O-o-o!"  gurgles  Inez,  when  she  gets  a  glimpse 
of  me. 

"I  know,  dearie,"  says  I.  "My  shoulder 
blades  haven't  had  such  a  public  airing  since  I 
went  swimming  in  the  creek  back  at  Dodge's 
Clearing,  but  if  you  can  fold  over  about  three 
inches  down  the  back  seam  and  pin  it  together 
neat  I  guess  I'll  get  by  the  censor.  Mrs.  Junius 
Stokes  and  I  aren't  built  on  exactly  the  same 
lines,  but  it  doesn't  look  so  badly,  does  it?" 

"Lovely!"  says  Inez,  gawping  at  me.  "Why, 
you  look  like — like — " 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "Words  fail.  Just  take 
a  glimpse  in  the  mirror  yourself,  though,  Inez. 
Uh-huh.  Black  is  your  color.  Shows  off  your 
hair  and  complexion  better  than  anything  else. 
Oh,  for  an  eyebrow  pencil!  Wait!  Here's  a 
burnt  match  end.  There!  And  if  we  could 
only  stretch  the  skirt  down  about  two  inches 
they'd  say  you'd  cabled  your  measurements  over 
to  Chicot.  But  then,  that  part  of  you  '11  be  under 
the  table  most  of  the  time.  We'll  trust  so,  any- 
way. And  now,  if  you'll  show  me  the  funny  way 
that  milliner  twisted  your  hair." 

We  made  a  guess  at  it,  and  by  the  time  word 

comes   up   that  the   limousine  waits   below  we 

46 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

were  ready.  That  is,  I'd  stuffed  Inez  into  her 
borrowed  frock  and  she'd  draped  mine  around 
me.  What  the  general  effect  would  have  been 
on  an  outsider  I  can't  say,  but  as  we  passed  the 
pier  glass  in  the  lower  hall  and  got  our  first  full- 
length  view,  we  couldn't  help  pausing  and  draw- 
ing a  long  breath. 

"My!"  says  Inez.  "You—  You  look  ele- 
gant!" 

"I  admit  it,"  says  I.  "That's  the  way  I  feel, 
anyway.  Of  course,  sea-shell  pink  doesn't  go 
exactly  with  carroty  hair  and  freckles,  but  it 
tones  in  well  enough  with  my  gooseberry-green 
eyes.  Personally,  I'm  not  crazy  about  displaying 
so  much  of  my  backbone,  but  if  I  can  stand  it 
I  guess  other  folks  can.  As  for  you,  Inez,  all 
you  lack  is  an  ermine-trimmed  robe  and  some 
pearl  ropes  to  be  mistaken  for  a  grand  duchess. 
But  gosh !  We  must  get  started." 

It  was  just  our  poor  luck  that  all  of  Mrs. 
Wellby's  boarders  were  still  in  the  dining  room 
just  then,  and  that  not  more  than  a  dozen  people, 
including  two  janitors,  were  in  sight  as  we  swept 
majestic  down  the  old  brownstone  steps.  Such 
as  they  were,  though,  we  gave  'em  a  treat.  And 
the  Stokes's  chauffeur  opened  the  limousine  door 
real  respectful. 

As  a  rule  Inez  takes  her  thrills  with  no  more 
outward  show  than  a  blink  or  two,  but  we  hadn't 

47 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

driven  half  a  block  before  she  begins  squirming 
around  on  the  cushions. 

"Stop  it,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Those  patent  snap- 
pers aren't  steel  rivets,  you  know,  and  you 
mustn't  put  too  much  strain  on  'em.  What's 
the  matter?" 

"Man!"  says  she,  starin'  through  the  back 
window. 

"What  man?"  I  demands. 

"He  was  waiting  in  doorway  as  we  come  out," 
whispers  Inez.  "Now — now  he's  in  taxi  behind." 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "Forget  that  small  town 
stuff.  You're  not  back  in  Duluth.  This  is  New 
York.  Why,  I  can  count  half  a  dozen  taxis  be- 
hind us,  and  as  soon  as  we  swing  into  Broadway 
we'll  be  in  a  procession  of  'em  fourteen  miles  long, 
and  another  thing,  Inez:  the  moment  we  strike 
the  block  the  Stokeses  live  in  you've  got  to  park 
that  cud  of  gum  permanent  in  the  roadway." 

That  calms  her  for  a  while,  but  as  we  turned 
into  a  street  in  the  West  Seventies  she's  staring 
anxious  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Look!"  says  she,  clutching  me  nervous  by 
the  arm.  "Same  man!" 

"I  doubt  it,"  says  I.  "But  even  so,  I  fail  to 
work  up  any  panic  over  it.  All  that's  worrying 
me  just  now  is  what  we're  going  to  tell  'em  about 
Uncle  Nels.  You'd  better  leave  that  part  of  it 
to  me,  Inez.  And  here  we  are." 

48 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

Two  minutes  later,  and  Mrs.  Stokes  is  receiv- 
ing us  with  enthusiastic  squeals.  She's  a  pudgy, 
billowy  female  herself,  and  you  could  hardly 
blame  her  for  being  surprised  at  the  way  her 
evening  gowns  showed  up  on  some  one  who 
didn't  run  so  much  to  curves.  True,  she  was 
gazing  mostly  at  Inez. 

"Superb!"  says  she.  "Why,  I  had  no  idea 
you  could —  Come,  Junius!  Come  and  see  her." 

At  which  Junius  trots  in  from  the  next  room 
and  examines  Inez  approving. 

"Stunning!"  says  he.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  she 
would  be?  And — er — Miss — ah — " 

"Dodge,"  says  I.  "But  don't  bother  about 
me.  I'm  just  among  those  present.  Too  bad 
about  Uncle  Nels,  though.  Inez  couldn't  get 
word  to  him." 

"Eh?"  says  Junius.  "Uncle  Nels?  Oh  yes. 
But  that  doesn't  matter.  Not  in  the  least.  An- 
other time,  perhaps — if  necessary." 

He's  a  nervous,  fluttery  little  man,  with  rest- 
less eyes  and  hands.  And  every  time  he  says 
anything  he  glances  at  Mrs.  Stokes,  as  if  he  was 
getting  her  O.  K.  on  it. 

"Junius  means,"  puts  in  Mrs.  Stokes,  "that 
we  have  another  guest  to-night;  quite  a  dis- 
tinguished man,  I  may  say — Mr.  Morgan  Smith, 
the  capitalist." 

"Quite  wealthy,"  adds  Junius. 
49 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  hope  he's  somebody's  uncle,  too,"  says  I, 
just  by  way  of  saying  something. 

I  was  waiting  for  some  side  light  on  why  we'd 
been  picked  out  as  dinner  guests,  but  so  far 
nothing  had  been  offered.  Perhaps  Inez  knew 
more  than  she'd  told,  but  it  wasn't  likely.  And 
probably  it  would  come  out  later  on. 

The  next  thing  I  know,  though,  Mrs.  Stokes 
and  Junius  seem  to  be  swapping  some  confidences 
in  code. 

"Shall  we?"  asks  Junius. 

"M-m-m-m,"  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  tapping  her 
pursed  lips  with  a  platinum  lorgnette  and  turn- 
ing to  gaze  critical  at  Inez.  "I  think  so." 

"Then  you  do  it,"  urges  Junius. 

"Very  well,"  says  she. 

With  that  she  takes  Inez  by  the  hand  and 
starts  leading  her  toward  the  hallway.  "Come, 
my  dear,"  she  goes  on.  "We  have  just  time 
before  Mr.  Morgan  Smith  arrives.  I  want  you 
to  wear  something  for  me." 

So  I'm  left  with  Junius  for  a  minute  or  so  until 
the  butler  tows  in  the  missing  guest.  And  say, 
a  lot  of  these  New  York  plutes  aren't  much  to 
look  at,  are  they?  This  Morgan  Smith,  for  in- 
stance. Of  course  I'd  never  heard  of  him  before. 
He  may  belong  to  one  of  the  old  Wall  Street 
families,  for  all  I  know.  But  I  must  say  that  his 
dinner  coat  might  have  fitted  snugger  around  the 

So 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

neck,  and  I  didn't  know  that  any  but  movie 
stars  tucked  the  ends  of  their  black  ties  under 
their  turnover  collars.  He  doesn't  seem  such  a 
chatty  party,  either.  Probably  afraid  he'd  spill 
something  about  the  stock  market  that  we  could 
cash  in  on.  Junius,  though,  is  there  with  the 
polite  patter  and  tells  him  how  he'll  soon  have 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Petersen  of  Duluth. 

"An  heiress,"  adds  Junius,  kind  of  on  the  side. 
"Rich  uncle.  Interested  in — er — the  same  prop- 
osition that  you  are.  In  fact,  the  young  lady  has 
consented  to  wear  them  to-night.  Nothing 
closed,  however,  you  understand." 

"I  see,"  says  Mr.  Morgan  Smith. 

All  of  which  meant  very  little  to  me.  But  it 
got  me  pricking  my  ears  forward.  What  was  it 
that  Inez  was  going  to  wear?  Goodness  knows 
I  hoped  it  would  be  something  substantial.  She 
needed  it.  And  just  why  he  should  be  so  much 
better  posted  about  Uncle  Nels  than  I  was  I 
couldn't  figure  out.  Unless  Inez  had  been  draw- 
ing on  an  imagination  that  I  didn't  know  she 
had. 

"Ah!"  says  Junius.    "Here  they  are." 

Say,  I  took  one  look,  and  then  I  let  out  a  gasp 
that  must  have  sounded  like  a  bottle  of  home 
brew  exhausting  through  the  cork.  Was  this 
Inez,  or  the  late  Cleopatra?  Talk  about  jewels! 
Why,  she  was  decorated  like  a  Christmas  tree. 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

They  were  hung  around  her  neck,  they  blazed 
from  different  parts  of  the  black  dress,  and  top- 
ping her  honey-colored  hair  was  a  regular  crown 
effect  with  a  blue  stone  half  the  size  of  a  fried 
egg  and  diamonds  splashed  all  around  it.  If  I'd 
been  brought  up  in  a  pawn  shop  I  might  describe 
'em  better,  but,  being  no  gem  expert,  I'll  have  to 
let  it  ride  at  that.  Anyway,  it  was  some  display. 

Mr.  Morgan  Smith  is  a  cool  one,  though.  He 
don't  seem  more  than  half  stunned.  "And  you 
say,"  he  asks,  "that  these  are  the  genuine — " 

"Exactly,"  breaks  in  Junius.  "Sent  over  by 
a  commission  from  the  Soviet  government.  But 
we'll  talk  about  that  after  dinner.  All  ready, 
Barton  ?  Very  well,  Mr.  Smith,  will  you  take  in 
Mrs.  Stokes?" 

I  expect  it  was  a  perfectly  gorgeous  feed,  too, 
but  between  trying  to  guess  which  was  the  right 
fork  to  use  and  staring  at  Inez  I  was  too  busy  to 
notice  what  I  was  eating.  You'd  have  thought 
Inez  would  have  been  dazed,  too,  by  all  that 
magnificence  hung  on  her.  But  not  Miss  Peter- 
sen.  She  sits  there  with  her  chin  well  up,  blink- 
ing bland  and  peaceful,  and  only  now  and  then, 
when  she  catches  me  gazing  at  her,  indulging  in 
that  simple,  childish  smile  of  hers.  I  remember 
producing  the  same  effect  once  by  giving  her  a 
string  of  pink  beads  that  I'd  bought  at  the  Five 
and  Ten.  All  the  remark  she  makes  is  when  she 

52 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

leans  across  the  table  while  her  plate  is  being 
shifted,  and  asks  me  how  I  think  she  looks. 

"Like  a  spruce  after  a  sleet  storm,  Inez,"  says 
I.  "How  do  you  feel?" 

"Swell,"  says  Inez,  using  one  of  her  three 
adjectives. 

Somehow,  though,  it  wasn't  a  lively  dinner 
party,  and  while  Inez  and  I  didn't  miss  a  single 
trick,  from  the  caviar  doodads  to  the  smelly 
cheese,  neither  of  us  contributes  much  to  the 
gayety  of  the  occasion.  As  for  me,  I  couldn't 
help  wondering  what  it  was  all  about.  Mr. 
Morgan  Smith  fails  to  loosen  up,  too.  But  the 
Stokeses  did  their  best.  And  yet,  all  the  time  I 
had  a  hunch  that  something  was  going  to  break 
sudden. 

It  did.  Just  as  Barton  was  bringing  the  tray  of 
little  coffee  cups  into  the  drawing-room  this  Smith 
person  strolls  casually  to  the  front  window,  runs 
up  the  shade,  pulls  it  down  again,  and  strolls  back. 

"And  you  guarantee,"  says  he  to  Junius, 
"that  these  are  the  Russian  crown  jewels?" 

"S-s-sh!"  says  Junius,  looking  about  wild. 

"Ah,  ditch  that  stuff!"  says  Smith.  "I've  got 
you  right  this  time,  Mister  Flooey  Meyers,  alias 
Little  Dutch,  alias  J.  Stokes." 

There  comes  a  panicky  squeal  from  Mrs.  Stokes 
and  she  collapses  on  a  gilt  sofa.  Junius  gets  pop- 
eyed  and  makes  motions  with  his  mouth  like  a 

53 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

fish  flopping  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat.     But  he 
makes  a  good  stab  at  recovering. 

"I — I  don't  quite  understand,"  says  he. 
"There  must  be  some  mistake." 

"Sure  there  was,"  says  Smith.  "Two  of  'em. 
One  was  when  you  left  Pittsburgh  and  brought 
this  shop-worn  con  trick  to  New  York.  Had 
your  nerve  with  you,  I'll  say.  The  other  was 
when  you  looked  up  Morgan  Smith  in  Brad- 
street's  and  neglected  to  take  a  squint  at  his 
photograph.  Say,  I  look  about  as  much  like  him 
as  I  do  like  you.  Didn't  even  know  he  was  in 
Pinehurst,  did  you?  That's  how  his  secretary, 
who  happens  to  be  my  brother-in-law,  could  let 
me  use  his  private  office  the  day  you  made  your 
proposition.  Yes,  Flooey,  I'm  from  headquar- 
ters, and  that's  where  you're —  Hey,  come  back 
here!" 

Junius,  who  had  been  backing  toward  the 
front  hall,  had  taken  a  running  start.  But  he 
didn't  get  far,  for  just  outside  the  door  he  runs 
into  two  more  plain-clothes  men  who  come  drag- 
ging him  in. 

"Shall  I  put  the  wristlets  on  him,  Lieutenant?" 
asks  one. 

"Don't  bother,"  says  the  lieutenant.  "Most 
likely  he  has  his  bail  bond  all  arranged  for  and 
will  come  quietly.  Eh?  That's  right,  Flooey. 
The  Chief  will  want  to  see  the  lady,  too." 

54 


INEZ  GETS  HER  WISH 

"How  about  the  girls?"  asks  the  detective, 
nodding  toward  Inez  and  me. 

"No,"  says  the  lieutenant.  "Just  stool  pi- 
geons. I  know  where  to  find  them  when  they're 
wanted.  But  we'll  need  that  glassware  as  evi- 
dence. I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  shed  the  fake 
ornaments,  sister." 

"Me?"  says  Inez,  gawping  at  him. 

"Sorry,"  says  the  lieutenant,  "but  you 
wouldn't  want  to  wear  all  that  junk  in  the  drink 
booth,  to-morrow,  would  you?  You'd  tie  up 
the  traffic.  Besides,  the  heiress  act  is  over,  Miss 
Petersen." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  says  Inez,  singing  it  placid 
through  her  nose. 

And  with  my  help  Inez  is  undecorated. 

"Now  we  can  go  home,  can  we?"  I  asks. 

The  lieutenant  nods. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  says  I,  "I'm  going  to 
touch  this  Junius  person  for  taxi  fare." 

"Go  to  it,"  says  he. 

And  while  Junius  seemed  a  bit  annoyed  over 
it,  he  did  dig  up  a  five  and  passed  it  over. 

"Thanks,"  says  I.  "But  say,  mister,  next 
time  you  stage  us  in  a  bunco  game  kindly  get  a 
Smith  who  isn't  on  the  police  force.  And  be 
sure  to  look  pleasant  when  you  sit  for  your 
thumbprints.  Come,  Inez,  I  have  some  advice 
to  slip  you  about  making  dinner  dates." 
5  55 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

And  on  the  way  back  to  the  boarding  house  I 
tried  to  make  it  quite  clear  to  her  that  so  much 
prattle  about  a  rich  uncle  who  couldn't  be  pro- 
duced was  bound  to  get  us  in  wrong  sooner  or 
later.  There  are  times,  though,  when  it's  just  as 
useless  talking  to  Inez  as  it  is  trying  to  chat  over 
a  dead  wire.  She  just  sits  there  with  that  simple 
smirk  on  her  face  and  says  never  a  word. 

"Say,"  I  breaks  in,  "what's  so  humorous  about 
getting  mixed  up  with  a  pair  of  crooks  and  just 
dodging  a  night  in  the  hoosgow?" 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  rousing  from  the  trance. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  it  comes?  In  Duluth,  no.  By 
New  York,  yes.  Swell  peoples — lotta  jewelry — 
and  then  the  police  break  in.  Just  like  six- 
reeler.  And  we — we  get  in  the  middle  of  it. 
Ah-h-h!" 

"We  did,  Inez,  we  did,"  I  admits.  "And  with 
a  mind  working  along  the  lines  that  yours  does, 
Heaven  only  knows  how  long  we'll  stay  out  of 
another." 


Chapter  IV 
Trilby  May  Shoos  Off  a  Jinx 

!t\  X  7ELL,  Inez,"  I  asks,  curious,  as  we  set- 
*  *  ties  ourselves  for  an  early  boarding- 
house  breakfast,  "why  all  the  gloom?" 

But  it's  one  thing  to  put  Inez  on  the  stand  and 
something  else  again  to  get  her  to  answer  ques- 
tions. She  merely  unfolds  a  damp  napkin  about 
the  size  of  a  cigarette  coupon,  and  shrugs  her 
shoulder. 

"I'll  admit,"  says  I,  "that  it  isn't  wholly 
cheering  to  face  stewed  rhubarb  for  the  fifth 
consecutive  morning.  But  chirk  up.  It  might 
have  been  prunes." 

"I  like  prunes,  too,"  says  Inez. 

"Then  for  the  love  of  soup,"  I  goes  on,  "why 
start  a  nice  spring  day  by  wearing  a  face  like  that  ?" 

She  finishes  the  last  spoonful  of  the  fruit  sub- 
stitute and  sops  a  piece  of  bread  in  the  dish, 
thoughtful,  before  she  remarks,  "I  have  bad 
dream  last  night." 

" Eh  ? "  says  I.  "Then  you  must  have  dreamed 
you  were  a  Staten  Island  ferryboat  feeling  your 

57 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

way  across  in  a  thick  fog.  That  is,  judging  by 
the  sounds." 

"I  don't  know  I  make  snores,"  says  Inez, 
getting  a  hurt  look  into  those  wide,  set  gray  eyes. 

"Few  of  us  do  know,"  says  I.  "I'm  not  com- 
plaining, either.  And  if  you  don't  care  for  the 
word  we'll  just  put  it  that  you  slept  eloquently. 
But  what  was  there  bad  about  this  dream  of 
yours?  Thought  you  were  being  crowded  off  a 
cliff  by  a  freight  engine,  or  something  like  that  ? " 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "No,"  says  she.  "I 
meet  black  cat  walking  on  his  hind  legs." 

"Why,  I  shouldn't  list  that  as  a  nightmare, 
Inez!"  says  I.  "I'd  call  that  kind  of  a  comic 
dream." 

"Brings  bad  luck,"  says  Inez,  solemn.  "I  read 
it  in  dream  book  long  time  ago.  Bad  luck  sure." 

"Not  if  you  say  the  right  thing  as  soon  as 
you've  told  the  dream,"  says  I.  "Come  on, 
now.  Quick,  after  me!  Six  dollars  will  buy  six- 
teen sick  Slovaks  a  samovar." 

And  Inez  repeats  it,  eager.  "You — you  think 
that  stops  it,  hey?"  she  demands. 

"Absolutely!"  says  I.  "Never  known  to  fail. 
And  now  that  we've  plucked  the  monkey  wrench 
out  of  the  gears  of  fate  let's  hurry  around  and 
open  up  the  orangeade  booth  on  daylight  saving 
schedule." 

In  the  front  hall,  though,  we're  held  up  by  this 
58 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

old  maid  landlady  of  ours — the  one  with  the  faded 
smile  and  the  shrewd  eyes. 

"Ah,  young  ladies!"  says  she.  "Off  to  business 
again?" 

"That's  a  polite  way  of  putting  it,"  says  I. 

"Then  I  take  it  that  Miss  Petersen,"  she  goes 
on,  "has  not  yet  found  her — ah — rich  uncle?" 

"No,"  says  I.  "An  uncle  so  thoroughly  mis- 
laid as  Miss  Petersen's  isn't  found  easy." 

"I  was  just  wondering,  my  dear,"  purrs  Miss 
Wellby,  "if  you  were  likely  to  be  permanent 
guests.  You  see,  I  have  opportunities  for — " 

"Quite  so,"  says  I.  "But  if  it  will  ease  your 
mind  any  I  can  state  that  we're  liable  to  be  with 
you  for  some  little  time.  Anyway,  we  shall  plan 
to  give  you  the  usual  week's  notice." 

Which  little  exchange  seems  to  add  to  Inez's 
gloomy  thoughts.  "I  no  like  how  she  looks  at 
me,  that  Miss  Wellby,"  says  she. 

"Oh,  she's  all  right,"  says  I.  "Only  she  has 
looked  at  boarders  so  long  as  standing  for  so 
many  dollars  per  that  at  times  she  gets  on  that 
cash-register  gaze.  Forget  it.  Gosh!  but  this  is 
a  regular  morning,  eh  ? " 

"Yes-s-s-s!"  says  Inez,  drawing  in  about  a  bar- 
relful  of  Eighth  Avenue  ozone,  diluted  a  bit  by 
the  exhausts  from  a  lot  of  motor  trucks  and  de- 
livery cars.  "  Pretty  soon  ice  go  out  of  lake  and 
vi'lets  come  in  woods  by  Coleraine." 

59 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Quit  that  homesick  stuff,  Inez,"  says  I. 
"Haven't  we  got  Central  Park,  just  across  the 
Circle?" 

"Too  many  bums  on  benches,"  says  Inez. 

"You've  said  it,"  says  I.  "But  this  wouldn't 
be  New  York  if  we  could  have  it  all  to  ourselves. 
And  here's  our  cozy  little  white-tiled  booth,  wait- 
ing for  us  to  unbutton  the  front  and  mix  up  ten 
gallons  of  thirst  quencher.  So  pull  up  your  socks 
and  get  busy." 

"Socks?"  asks  Inez,  gawping  at  me. 

"Mere  figure  of  speech,  Inez,"  says  I,  "al- 
though you'll  probably  get  to  rolling  yours  be- 
fore the  season's  over.  Gee!  but  that  ice  man 
does  make  a  mess  on  the  sidewalk!  Hand  me 
that  broom." 

Nothing  like  a  little-high  speed  industry  to  dis- 
courage a  jinx.  Inside  of  half  an  hour  Inez  was 
humming  a  tune  between  her  front  teeth  as  she 
polished  the  glasses,  and  showing  her  cheek 
dimples  to  favored  customers.  Even  when  old 
Popogoulis,  the  boss,  shows  up  on  his  daily  prowl 
along  the  orangeade  chain  she  still  keeps  chip- 
per. And  he's  been  toting  half  a  grouch  the  last 
few  days,  you  know,  because  we  haven't  towed 
around  Uncle  Nels  so  Popogoulis  could  ring  him 
in  as  a  heavy  investor. 

"Huh!"   says   Popogoulis,   after   listening  to 

Inez's  musical  efforts  for  a  minute  or  two.  "May- 

60 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

be  you  feel  that  way  'cause  you  find  your  rich 
uncle?     Hey?" 

"No  find  him  yet,"  says  Inez.  "Next  week, 
I  guess." 

"Huh!"  says  Popogoulis. 

And  it  wasn't  two  minutes  later  when  this 
youth  with  the  ingrowing  chin  starts  a  hot  de- 
bate with  Inez  over  the  change  she's  given  him. 

"Ah,  wotcher  tryin'  to  pull  on  me?"  he  asks, 
messy.  "I  gave  yer  a  two." 

"One!"  insists  Inez.  "See?"  And  she  ex- 
hibits a  dirty  bill. 

"Two  it  was,"  snarls  the  youth,  "and  I  don't 
stand  for  no  short-change  act  from  a  moll  like 
you." 

"Give  the  gent  his  change,"  breaks  in  Pop- 
ogoulis. 

"But  there's  no  two-dollar  bill  in  the  cash 
drawer,"  says  I,  taking  a  hand.  "Besides,  Mr. 
Popogoulis,  I've  got  a  line  on  this  young  hick. 
Saw  him  drift  past  here  yesterday  with  that 
pimple-faced  sport  you  fired  when  you  took  us 
on.  This  is  a  frame-up." 

"Gwan!"  says  the  chinless  one.  "Gimme  my 
ninety-five." 

"Here!"  says  Popogoulis,  counting  it  out. 
"Excuse  it,  please." 

"Oh,  well!''  says  I.  "If  you  can  afford  to 
shoot  the  profits  that  way,  all  right." 

61 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"You'll  find  out  Saturday,  Miss  Trilby  May," 
says  he,  "who  pays  for  mistakes  in  my  business." 

"What?"  says  I.  "You'll  dock  us?  Say,  you 
might  work  that  in  old  Athens,  but  it  don't  get 
past  in  the  U.  S.  A.  Not  with  this  sketch.  We 
decline  to  be  docked." 

"So-o-o?"  says  he,  glaring  at  me  with  those 
beady  little  eyes.  "Then  you  know  what  you 
get?  The  chuck  out.  Here!  I  pay  you  ofF. 
Get!" 

"Perfectly  satisfactory,  old  Goulash,"  says  I. 
"Come  along,  Inez." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  staring  stupid.  "What 
for?" 

"We've  been  handed  our  release,  that's  all," 
says  I.  "It  was  coming  to  us,  anyway,  I  suspect, 
so  we  might  as  well  meet  it  halfway.  They're 
bad  enough  to  get  along  with,  these  Greeks, 
when  they're  trying  to  be  decent;  but  when  they 
get  crabby  it's  all  off.  So  long,  old  dear." 

"Bah!"  says  Popogoulis,  slamming  the  booth 
gate  behind  us. 

"Meaning  Aloah  and  farewell,  I  suppose?" 
says  I.  "But  keep  a  dry  eye,  popper,  and  we'll 
do  the  same." 

So  there  we  were,  turned  loose  on  upper  Broad- 
way at  10.15  in  the  morning,  all  dressed  up  in 
white  and  nowhere  to  go.  Trust  Inez  for  stating 
the  case  frankly  and  directly. 

62 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

"We  lose  our  job,  hey?"  she  asks. 

"Crude,  but  accurate,"  says  I.    "We  have." 

"What  we  do  now?"  demands  Inez. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "we  might  wander  over  there 
by  the  statue  of  Chris  Columbus  and  shed  a 
few  tears,  but  ten  to  one  a  traffic  cop  would 
shoo  us  off  and  nobody  would  offer  words  of 
sympathy.  So  why  not  remember  that  it's  a 
peach  of  a  day  and  pretend  we're  having  a 
vacation?" 

There's  nothing  shifty  about  her  mental  proc- 
esses, though.  Inez  shakes  her  head  gloomy. 
"I  told  you  that  black-cat  dream  bring  bad  luck," 
says  she. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "and  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it. 
You'll  keep  on  telling  me,  until  some  day  in  des- 
peration I  shall  hide  your  gum.  But  now  that 
we  have  felt  the  full  force  of  the  blow  let's  buck 
up  and  see  if  we  can't  grin.  Didn't  you  say 
something  about  violets?  How  about  hunting 
'em?" 

"By  Coleraine?"  asks  Inez. 

"No,  by  Jersey,"  says  I.  "There's  a  ferry 
somewhere  uptown,  and  here's  a  duck  car  bound 
north.  What  do  you  say  to  making  a  day  of  it  ?" 

Somehow  it's  these  unexpected  offside  excur- 
sions that  I  like  best.  If  we'd  had  a  regular  holi- 
day declared  for  us,  as  a  reward  of  merit,  and  had 
planned  to  do  this  a  week  ahead — well,  probably 

63 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

it  would  have  rained.  Anyway,  I'd  have  frit- 
tered away  most  of  my  enthusiasm  for  it  before 
we  ever  got  started.  Before  we  got  on  the  boat 
we  bought  some  rolls,  and  a  pound  of  sliced 
bologna,  and  a  pair  of  dill  pickles,  and  some 
sugared  doughnuts,  and  enough  gum  to  last  Inez 
until  dark.  And  when  we  trailed  off  the  ferry 
we  found  a  trolley  that  was  going  somewhere, 
and  we  piled  aboard,  and  in  no  time  at  all  we 
were  on  top  of  the  Palisades  with  a  whole  lot  of 
New  Jersey  spread  out  before  us,  and  everything 
all  light  greens  and  pale  yellow,  except  the  apple 
trees  that  stood  out  like  so  many  pink  bouquets. 

"Pretty,  yes?"  says  Inez,  springing  her  ques- 
tion and  answering  it  in  the  same  breath,  as  usual. 

"I'm  with  you,  Inez,"  says  I.  "And  I  must 
say  that  about  this  time  of  year  I'm  strong  for 
all  this  sort  of  thing.  Back  in  Minnesota,  when 
I  used  to  wander  out  into  the  clearing  on  spring 
mornings,  I'd  forget  how  lonesome  I  was  and 
how  little  I  cared  for  my  stepmother  and  my 
half  sisters.  I've  got  the  same  sort  of  feeling 
right  now.  See  those  hazy  hills  off  there  ?  We'll 
see  how  near  them  this  car  will  take  us.  Eh?" 

And  say,  we  found  the  slickest  place!  At  a 
bend  in  the  road  there  was  a  pond  where  a  creek 
had  been  dammed  up,  and  somebody  had  built 
an  old-fashioned  mill  with  a  water  wheel  that 
really  turned,  and  there  were  some  willow  trees 

64 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

and  a  stretch  of  green  turf  along  the  bank.  All 
ft  lacked  was  a  gilt  frame  to  be  marked  2.98  and 
sent  to  the  art  department  for  a  bargain-day 
sale. 

"Pretty  soft,  eh?"  says  I.  "Why  should  we 
worry  about  getting  fired  when  we  can  drop  into 
anything  like  this  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  yodle. 
No,  now  that  I  remember,  I  believe  I  don't  yodle 
very  well.  But  I  know  what  I  am  going  to  do, 
Inez.  I'm  going  to  revert." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez. 

"Do  a  throw-back,"  says  I.  "That  is,  I'm 
going  barefoot  for  a  while,  and  paddle  my  toot- 
sies in  the  water." 

Inez  blinks  twice,  real  rapid,  signifying  that 
she's  shocked.  "By  the  road,"  says  she,  "come 
automobiles." 

"When  they  do,"  says  I,  "I'll  duck  behind  the 
bushes.  But  paddle  I  must." 

And  I  did,  for  the  first  time  since  I  left  Tama- 
rack Junction  and  went  traveling  with  a  young 
lady  Swede  who  had  a  scenario  mind.  I  buried 
my  toes  in  the  mud  and  then  wiggled  'em  clean 
again.  It's  a  gorgeous  sensation,  working  your 
toes  down  into  soft,  black  mud,  and  feeling  it 
ooze  between  'em.  I  know  Inez  was  dying  to  do 
it,  too,  but  she  didn't  dare.  But  finally  she  did 
get  real  reckless.  She  took  down  her  hair  and 
let  it  fall  in  two  great  yellow  braids  over  her 

65 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

shoulders.  Then  we  stuck  the  braids  full  of 
buttercups  and  made  a  wreath  that  I  pinned 
over  her  white  forehead  and  behind  her  ears. 

"There!"  says  I.  "You're  a  dead  ringer  for 
Parthenia." 

"Who?  "asks  Inez. 

"I  forget  the  details,"  says  I,  "but  I  think  she 
was  a  queen  somewhere." 

Inez  smiles  pleased.  "I  like  to  be  a  queen 
once,"  says  she.  "It  would  be  swell,  eh?" 

"What  simple  tastes  you  have!"  says  I.  "But 
honest,  Inez,  I  don't  think  I  can  manage  it.  Not 
to-day,  anyway.  How  about  tackling  our  deli- 
catessen lunch,  though?  It  must  be  nearly  noon. 
I'm  sure  I  could  do  with  nourishment  right  now. 
Park  your  gum,  Inez,  and  let's  spread  the  feast." 

It's  lucky  I  waited  and  struggled  back  into  my 
lisle  threads  and  pumps,  for  just  as  we  were 
finishing  the  last  of  the  doughnuts  a  big  touring 
car  pulled  in  from  the  road,  and  the  next  thing 
I  knew  a  heavy  built  man  had  jumped  out, 
walked  around  us  businesslike,  and  was  announc- 
ing to  somebody  in  the  tonneau:  "All  right, 
Jimmy.  Here's  the  location." 

At  which  Jimmy,  who  is  a  sporty  dressed  young 
gent,  proceeds  to  unload  a  tripod  machine  and 
set  it  up. 

"How  about  the  peasantry,  Mr.  Simms?"  asks 

Jimmy. 

66 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

"Oh,  I'll  shunt  them  when  the  time  comes," 
says  this  Simms  party,  glancing  careless  at  us. 
"Might  as  well  clear  the  scene  now,  though,  I 
suppose.  Say,  girlies,  toddle  off,  will  you  ? " 

"Meaning  us?"  says  I. 

"Sure!  I'm  looking  your  way,  ain't  I?"  says 
Simms. 

"That's  nice  of  you,"  says  I.  "But  why  rush 
us?  We  were  here  first  and  we  haven't  got  to 
the  toddling  stage  yet." 

"Well,  you'd  better,"  says  he.  "We're  going 
to  shoot  here  presently,  and  you'll  be  in  the 
way." 

Then  I  gave  him  the  grin.  "Shoot,  if  you  must, 
this  near-red  head,  but  spare  your  country's  flag, 
she  said,"  says  I,  quoting  free.  "Don't  budge, 
Inez.  Nothing  but  a  fresh  movie  director  who 
thinks  he  owns  the  earth." 

"Haw-haw!"  says  Jimmy,  registering  merri- 
ment. "Guess  you've  run  against  something 
this  time,  Mr.  Simms." 

But  Simms  hadn't  wrorked  at  his  job  without 
learning  a  thing  or  two  about  the  female  of  the 
species.  He  takes  off  his  hat  and  bows  polite. 
"My  error,  young  ladies,"  says  he.  "You  are 
perfectly  within  your  rights  and  I  wouldn't  think 
of  disturbing  your  repast  for  worlds.  But  when 
you  have  quite  finished— 

"You  win,  Mr.  Simms,"  says  I.  "Sir  Walter 
6? 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Raleigh  couldn't  have  done  it  better.  And  we'll 
move  anywhere  you  say,  any  time.  But  if  there's 
to  be  picture  taking  I'm  sure  my  friend  Miss 
Petersen  would  be  thrilled  if  she  could  stay  some- 
where on  the  sidelines  and  see  it  done." 

"We  shall  be  honored,  Miss — er — "  and  he 
pauses,  inquiring. 

"Dodge,"  says  I.  "Trilby  May  Dodge,  if  you 
care  for  the  whole  of  it." 

"I  do,"  says  he.  "Trilby  May,  eh?  Sort  of 
ripples  from  the  tongue,  doesn't  it?  Wouldn't 
go  bad  on  a  program.  But  pardon  me.  There, 
Jimmy!  How  do  you  get  the  light  on  me  here? 
Good!  Trees  and  water  in  the  background,  eh? 
Now  if  that  fool  bunch  of  people  will  only  show 
up  we  can — " 

"Coming  up!"  says  Jimmy,  as  another  touring 
car  tears  around  the  curve. 

And  as  I  am  leading  Inez  out  of  range  of  the 
camera  she  grips  me  excited  by  the  sleeve.  "Is 
— is  it  moving-picture  actors,  honest  ? "  she  whis- 
pers, husky. 

"None  other,"  says  I.  "See,  some  of  'em  have 
their  costumes  all  on  and  are  making  up  their 
faces  and  hands." 

"They — they  look  dead,"  says  Inez. 

"A  little  ghastly,"  says  I.  "But  I  hear  they 
have  to  do  that  so  they'll  take  well  in  the  pic- 
tures. Kind  of  a  lucky  break  for  us,  eh?  Being 

68 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

right  in  on  a  thing  like  this.  Now  you'll  know 
how  it's  done,  all  that  stuff  you  get  so  excited 
over  when  you  see  it  on  the  screen.  Jimmy's  the 
one  that  does  the  taking.  He'll  turn  the  crank 
on  his  machine  when  he  starts.  And  Mr.  Simms 
is  the  boss  of  the  whole  outfit.  If  you  don't  be- 
lieve it,  listen." 

He  was  announcing  that  he  was  all  ready,  Mr. 
Simms  was,  and  reminding  'em  rather  crisp  that 
he  didn't  propose  to  wait  around  more  than  an 
hour  more  for  a  lot  of  people  who  didn't  know  the 
value  of  time. 

"Come,  now,"  he  goes  on,  "let's  go.  Some- 
body help  Miss  Waters  with  her  robe  there,  and — 
Say,  Miss  Waters,  you  haveii't  even  got  your 
wig  on  yet." 

"Of  course  I  haven't,  Mr.  Simms,"  says  Miss 
Waters,  a  generous  built  young  lady  with  snappy 
black  eyes.  "I  don't  sleep  in  it,  you  know;  and 
I  wasn't  going  to  wear  it  all  the  way  from  Fort 
Lee,  was  I  ?  Estelle,  hand  me  that  blond  abomi- 
nation from  the  prop,  suitcase,  will  you?" 

But  after  pawing  around  frantic  for  a  minute 
or  two,  Estelle  says,  "There's  no  wig  to  be  found." 

"WThat!"  snorts  Mr.  Simms,  letting  loose  his 
real  director's  voice.  "No  wig  for  Queen  Fulda? 
Say,  that's  interesting,  that  is!" 

Then,  after  he'd  gone  to  the  car  and  made  a 
thorough  search  himself,  he  said  a  few  other 

69 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

things.  Some  were  sarcastic  remarks,  and  others 
were  straight  from  the  shoulder.  Most  of  them, 
too,  were  directly  for  the  benefit  of  Miss  Waters. 
You  could  tell  that  from  the  flashes  her  black 
eyes  threw  off.  And  the  next  thing  Mr.  Simms 
knew  he  was  being  told  a  few  things  by  Miss 
Waters. 

Who  was  he  talking  to,  anyway,  she'd  like  to 
know?  She  was  there  to  work  at  her  art,  she'd 
have  him  understand,  and  not  to  be  bawled  out 
by  any  mere  hundred-dollar-a-week  director. 
Not  her.  No.  Not  when  the  Paramount  people 
were  simply  begging  her  to  sign  a  two  years' 
contract  at  twice  the  money  she  was  getting 
from  this  bunch  of  cheap  skates.  Huh!  Mr. 
Simms  could  apologize  and  send  back  for  the 
wig,  or  he  could  go  twiddle  his  thumbs.  She — 
Miss  Waters — didn't  give  a  hoot  which. 

"But  see  here,  Miss  Waters,"  he  begins,  "you 
know  how  important  it  is  for  us  to — " 

"I  know  I'm  through  with  you,  that's  what  I 
know,"  snaps  Miss  Waters,  dipping  a  wash  rag 
vigorous  into  a  cold-cream  jar  and  rubbing  off 
the  make-up. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  says  Simms,  indulging  in  a 
sigh. 

He  was  a  patient,  long-suffering  person — when 
he  had  to  be.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  gazes 
around  at  the  little  group  of  actors  who  are 

70 


fi 


BUT    FINALLY    SHE    DID    GET    RECKLESS.       SHE    TOOK    DOWN    HER 

HAIR    AND    LET    IT    FALL    IN    TWO    GREAT    YELLOW    BRAIDS    OVER 

HER    SHOULDERS 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

maintaining  a  strict  neutrality.  Nobody  sug- 
gests anything  or  points  a  way  out. 

And  about  then,  for  no  reason  and  from  no 
cause  that  I  can  explain,  Inez  lets  out  this 
throaty  chuckle  of  hers. 

Of  course,  everyone  looked  our  way,  includ- 
ing Mr.  Simms.  At  which  Inez  should  have  been 
fussed.  She  wasn't.  She  merely  takes  another 
bite  from  our  last  doughnut  and  returns  the 


stares. 
tt 


Great  Pedro!"  gasps  Mr.  Simms,  punching 
Jimmy  in  the  ribs.    "Look!" 

"Eh?"  says  Jimmy. 

"Queen  Fulda's  wig!"  says  he.  And  the  next 
thing  I  knew  he  had  bounced  over  in  front  of  us. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Dodge,"  says  he,  "but — ah 
— is  that  hair  of  your  friend's  the  real  thing, 
or- 

"It  grows  on  her,"  says  I. 

"Just  my  luck!"  says  he.  "It  takes  a  lot  to 
beat  Bill  Simms,  too.  Of  course,  though,  if  she 
can't  take  it  off,  there's  no  use —  Yes,  there  is! 
Hey,  Jimmy!  Come  have  a  close-up.  How  about 
her,  eh?  With  the  robes  on  and  all  would  you 
know  the  difference,  yourself?  Would  you,  now  ? " 

"I  dunno  as  I  would,"  admits  Jimmy. 

"Then  it's  merely  a  question  of  whether  the 
young  lady  is  willing  to  help  us  out  of  a  hole,'* 
says  he. 
6  71 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"You  mean — "  says  I,  and  stares  from  him  to 
Inez. 

"Doing  a  few  hundred  feet  of  Queen  Fulda  for 
us?"  says  he.  "It's  a  simple  scene." 

"It  would  have  to  be,"  says  I.  "Wait.  Ill 
ask  her.  Listen,  Inez.  You  were  saying  a  little 
while  ago  that  yoy'd  like  to  be  a  queen  just  once. 
Well,  here's  your  chance.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I — I  think  it  would  be  swell,"  says  Inez. 

And  right  there,  with  Miss  Waters  looking  on 
and  biting  her  nails,  we  dressed  Inez  in  the  robes 
of  royalty,  draped  a  gorgeous  jeweled  girdle 
around  her  waist,  put  a  glittery  brass  crown  on 
her  head,  and  led  her  in  front  of  the  camera. 
For  a  minute,  too,  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
get  away  with  it.  But  no  sooner  does  Mr.  Simms 
begin  explaining  to  her  what  she  was  supposed 
to  do  than  she  ducks  that  Goddess  of  Liberty 
chin  of  hers  and  gets  on  that  foolish  simper. 

"No,  no!"  he  shouts.  "Not  that  way.  Keep 
your  chin  up." 

At  which  Inez  ducks  it  all  the  more.  He  worked 
for  ten  minutes,  getting  more  desperate  every 
second,  with  Inez  rapidly  lapsing  into  that  rigid, 
wooden  state  which  is  almost  as  bad  as  a  coma. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Simms,  but  you  won't  get 
anywhere  with  her  that  way,"  says  I. 

"Then  how?"  he  demands. 

"Perhaps,"  says  I,  "if  you  could  dope  out  to 
72 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

me  just  what  you  want  her  to  do,  I  might  get 
her  to  perform/* 

"  But — but  I'm  supposed  to  be  director  here," 
he  objects. 

"Can  you  talk  Minnesota?"  I  asks. 

"No,"  says  he.  "I  was  born  in  Brooklyn.  Go 
to  it,  Miss  Dodge.  You  see,  the  plot  of  the  story 
is  like  this — "  And  he  proceeds  to  sketch  it, 
hasty. 

"I  get  you,"  says  I.  "The  queen  has  escaped 
from  the  tower  where  the  old  kink  has  had  her 
shut  up,  and  while  she's  wandering  by  the  water 
frontage  along  comes  this  young  Sir  Percey 
Goofus,  or  whatever  name  he  flags  by,  and  he's 
the  one  she's  been  vamping  through  the  iron 
bars.  Isn't  that  the  main  idea?" 

"Exactly,"  says  he. 

"Then  we're  off,"  says  I.  "Come,  Inez,  pry 
yourself  out  of  that  trance  and  don't  look  like 
you'd  been  kicked  in  a  vital  spot  by  a  tin  mule. 
And  listen  closely  to  your  Trilby  May." 

"All  right!"  chants  Inez,  in  that  cheerful  sing- 
song of  hers.  "How  I  should  act,  hey?" 

"Like  a  queen,  dearie,  and  I  know  you'll  do 
it  fine,"  says  I,  soothing.  "That's  right.  Chuck 
the  big-casino  stuff  and  look  like  a  face  card. 
See,  you've  got  on  the  clothes  and  the  jewelry, 
and  you've  just  strayed  out  from  the  palace  by 
the  back  door.  You're  the  leading  lady  of  the 

73 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

land,  remember,  and  nobody  can  hand  you  any 
rough  stuff  and  live.  You're  the  whole  works, 
barring  the  old  king,  that  you've  just  naturally 
lost  your  taste  for.  That's  better!  Pep  and 
dignity,  with  your  chin  well  off  your  necklace 
and  limber  motions  in  your  knees.  Perfectly 
swell.  Now,  right  along  the  bank  there,  careless 
and  natural,  as  if  you  were  back  in  Coleraine 
looking  for  violets.  How  about  it,  Mr.  Simms?" 

"That's  a  queenly  tread  if  I  ever  saw  one," 
says  Simms.  "Shoot,  Jimmy,  while  she's  com- 
ing toward  you.  All  ready,  Sir  Percey !  Come  on 
when  Miss  Dodge  gives  you  the  word.  Better 
tell  her  about  him." 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "Keep  walking,  Inez,  but 
don't  look  up  yet.  For  something  elegant  is 
going  to  happen  to  you  in  about  a  minute.  Uh- 
huh!  You're  going  to  meet  up  with  your  Percey 
boy.  You're  crazy  about  him,  you  know,  and 
he's  just  as  nutty  over  you,  but  you  didn't  know 
he  was  nearer  than  Buffalo.  He  is,  though.  He's 
right  behind  that  bush  at  the  left  and  now  he's — 
Get  a  move  on,  Sir  Percey.  Now  you  see  her, 
and  it  stops  you  in  your  tracks.  Now  forward, 
with  your  arms  out  and  a  mushy  look  on  your 
face.  Your  turn,  Inez !  You  spot  him.  Fluttery 
with  the  eyes,  head  drooping  modest  like  an 
Easter  lily.  That's  putting  it  over!  Now  for 
the  clinch,  Percey,  and  don't  ease  up  on  it.  You 

74 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

got  an  armful  coming  to  you,  I'll  say.  Rush 
her!  Come  through,  Inez.  This  is  no  one-sided 
hugging  match,  you  know.  It's  a  twosome,  and 
you've  been  dreaming  about  Sir  Percey  for  the 
last  month.  There!  Now  you're  going  to  be 
kissed,  and  see  that  you  let  him  make  it  a  long, 
lingering  one,  like  you've  seen  on  the  screen  so 
often.  M-m-m-m-m!  I  expect  that  '11  do.  I  say, 
Inez,  can't  you  let  go,  unless  Mr.  Simms  wants 
to  enter  you  two  for  the  long-distance  record." 

"Cut  it,  Jimmy,"  says  Simms.  "And  if  that 
don't  make  'em  sit  up  in  the  back  rows  I'm  a 
poor  guesser." 

Even  at  that  I  had  to  step  in  and  tap  Inez  on 
the  shoulder  before  she  would  break  the  strangle 
hold.  "It's  all  over,  Inez,"  says  I.  "You've 
qualified  as  a  royal  kisser,  all  right." 

"I'll  say  she  has,"  murmurs  Sir  Percey,  as  he 
backs  off  to  a  safe  distance. 

"And  allow  me  to  state,  Miss  Dodge,"  says 
Simms,  "that  you're  a  born  assistant  director. 
I'll  bet  we've  got  three  hundred  feet  of  as  good 
outdoor  stuff  as  was  ever  put  on  celluloid.  But 
we  shall  need  you  and  Inez  in  the  studio  to  finish 
the  film.  I  hope  you  have  no  engagements 
that- 

"  We're  strictly  at  liberty,  Mr.  Simms,"  says 
I,  "but  we  can't  afford  to  do  this  just  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing." 

75 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  should  say  not,"  says  he.  "Will  twenty- 
five  a  day  be  satisfactory?" 

"I — I'll  have  to  ask  Inez,"  says  I,  gaspy. 
"You  see,  she  is  expecting  to  find  her  rich  uncle 
and — there,  there,  Inez!  Don't  try  to  talk  now, 
or  you'll  swallow  your  gum  again.  Yes,  I  think 
she's  willing,  Mr.  Simms." 

"Good!"  says  he.  "Report  at  ten  to-morrow 
morning  at  the  studio.  Here's  a  card  with  the  ad- 
dress. And  if  you  don't  mind  driving  back  with  the 
camera,  Jimmy  and  I  will  give  you  a  lift  home." 

It  wasn't  until  we  were  crossing  the  ferry  that 
I  had  this  late  thought  about  Popogoulis,  and  I 
saved  it  up  until  we  were  almost  down  to  Colum- 
bus Circle. 

"Oh,  there's  one  of  those  orangeade  booths, 
Mr.  Simms!"  says  I.  "Could  you  let  us  off  here? 
I've  got  a  thirst  like  a  dry  radiator." 

"Allow  me,"  says  Mr.  Simms,  hopping  out 
gallant  in  front  of  the  booth.  "Boy!  Two 
glasses  of  that  for  the  young  ladies,  and  make  it 
snappy." 

And  who  should  come  trotting  out  to  the  curb 
but  our  old  friend,  Pimple  Face,  while  Popo- 
goulis gawps  button-eyed  at  us  from  behind  the 
counter. 

"What  a  nice,  polite  youth!"  says  I  to  Inez, 
as  we  hands  back  the  empty  glasses.  "We  must 
stop  here  often.  Eh?" 

76 


TRILBY  MAY  SHOOS  OFF  A  JINX 

And  Inez  obliges  with  that  inane  chuckle  of 
hers. 

Not  until  we  got  back  to  the  boarding  house 
did  I  dare  ask  her  about  her  kissing  match  with 
Sir  Percey.  "Judging  by  the  way  you  went  at 
it,  Inez,"  says  I,  "I  should  hardly  call  that  an 
amateur  performance.  Where  did  you  do  so 
much  practicing?" 

"Me?"  says  Inez.  "I  have  fellers  by  Cole- 
raine,  ain't  I?  By  Duluth,  too." 

"But  never  before,  I'll  bet,"  says  I,  "one  who 
wore  blue  silk  tights  and  a  velvet  cap  with  an 
ostrich  plume  in  it." 

"Well,"  says  Inez,  "I  ain't  been  queen  before." 


Chapter  V 
Breaking  Wrong  for  Inez 

PO  start  out  in  the  morning  as  an  orangeade 
dipper  and  finish  the  day  as  a  movie  actress 
is  what  I'd  call  a  broad  jump.  That's  the  record 
of  Miss  Inez  Petersen  up  to  date,  as  I  was  telling 
you.  And  you  would  almost  think  she'd  be  so 
thrilled  over  it  that  she  couldn't  sleep.  Yet  I 
didn't  notice  that  Inez  found  any  trouble  in  tear- 
ing off  the  usual  nine  hours  of  slumber  that  night, 
some  of  it  more  or  less  musical. 

As  for  me,  before  I  could  stop  the  wheels  going 
round,  I  had  to  dally  with  rosy  dreams  of  the 
future.  I  could  map  out  a  career  for  Inez  that 
had  Mary  Pickford's  life  story  reading  like  a 
sketch  of  an  old-maid  school-teacher.  I  could 
see  Inez  climbing  the  stepladder  of  fame,  with  me 
steadying  it  all  the  while  and  coaching  her  along, 
first  as  a  substitute  leading  lady  in  a  Fort  Lee 
studio,  then  as  a  regular  star,  until  we  finally 
wound  up  at  the  Los  Angeles  movie  heaven  with 
our  own  producing  company  and  a  double- 
breasted  bungalow  at  Hollywood.  I  even  got  so 

78 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

far  as  to  wonder  how  many  secretaries  it  would 
take  to  autograph  her  photos  for  fans,  and  I 
pictured  the  kind  of  sport  speedster  we'd  drive 
to  work  in.  I  was  a  little  vague  about  the  type 
of  motor,  but  I  knew  it  would  have  three  sets  of 
windshields  and  so  many  spare  tires  on  back 
that  the  rear  end  would  look  like  a  caterpillar  or 
the  tail  of  a  rattler. 

"Well,  Inez,"  says  I,  next  morning,  "how  do 
you  feel  about  it?" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  says  she,  casual.  "How  do 
you  feel,  Trilby  May?" 

"Me?"  says  I.  "A  good  deal  like  a  she 
Svengali  who  isn't  sure  of  being  able  to  deliver 
the  trance  stuff  when  called  for." 

At  which  Inez  favors  me  with  one  of  those 
simple  stares  of  hers.  "Like  what?"  she  de- 
mands. 

"  Somebody  in  the  book  I  was  named  for,"  says 
I.  "It  was  an  old-timer  that  paw  had  around  the 
house,  and  I  read  it  when  I  was  little." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "You  read  lotta  books, 
hey?" 

"Oh,  I'm  no  female  highbrow,"  says  I,  "but 
I've  browsed  around  enough  to  know  that  Rex 
Beach  isn't  a  seashore  resort,  or  George  Ade  some 
kind  of  a  soft  drink.  I  got  the  reading  habit 
when  I  was  young  and  was  never  able  to  break 
off.  You  see,  paw  brought  on  two  trunks  when 

79 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

he  moved  from  Connecticut  to  Dodge's  Clearing, 
Minnesota,  and  as  near  as  I  could  make  out  they 
were  mainly  filled  with  books.  Nothing  valuable 
or  choice.  Just  an  odd  collection,  mostly  picked 
up  second  hand  or  borrowed  and  never  returned. 
Some  in  ragged  paper  bindings,  like  The  Light 
That  Failed  and  Lord  Jim.  Then  there  was  the 
second  volume  of  Les  Miserable*  in  faded  blue 
cloth  covers  that  somebody  had  spilled  something 
sticky  on,  and  Treasure  Island,  with  the  back 
ripped  off,  and  A  Tramp  Abroad,  with  the  stamp 
of  Torrington,  Connecticut,  Public  Library  on 
the  fly  leaf,  and  Ivanhoe  and  To  Have  and  to 
Hold,  and  A  Window  in  Thrums,  and  Captain 
Cook's  Voyages,  and  The  House  of  Mirth,  and 
Stanley's  thick  book  on  how  he  found  Living- 
stone, and  dozens  of  others  that  I  could  name, 
but  will  not,  Inez  dear." 

"You — you  don't  read  'em  all?"  asks  Inez. 

I  nods.  "Every  last  one,"  says  I,  "between 
twelve  and  sixteen,  and  most  of  them  I  went 
through  two  or  three  times.  What  else  was  there 
for  me  to  do  in  a  place  like  Dodge's  Clearing? 
Of  course,  another  frying  pan,  and  a  hand  sewing 
machine,  and  a  few  old  clothes  to  make  over, 
would  have  been  more  useful  things  to  have  im- 
ported from  Connecticut  if  paw  knew  he  was 
going  to  settle  down  in  the  pine  flats  three  miles 
from  a  store.  But  he  just  brought  the  books, 

80 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

and  let  it  go  at  that.  Paw's  long  suit,  that  was. 
And  I  guess  it  was  a  good  thing  for  me.  It  got 
me  the  job  of  teaching  the  Junction  school  for 
two  terms  before  I  was  eighteen,  and  I  suppose 
that  reading  has  helped  me  pick  the  right  words 
when  I  feel  like  exercising  a  tongue  that  Mrs. 
Ephraim  Dodge  No.  3  used  to  tell  me  was  as 
limber  as  a  mule  whip.  Anyway,  I  can  generally 
separate  myself  from  any  thoughts  that  happen 
to  occur  to  me." 

"I  think  you  talk  swell,"  says  Inez.  "Some 
day  I — I  gonna  read  a  book." 

"That's  a  noble  ambition,  Inez,"  says  I,  "but 
for  the  present  you  don't  need  to  worry  about 
improving  your  mind.  In  fact,  if  you  should, 
I'm  afraid  your  standing  as  a  budding  movie 
star  would  wabble  under  the  strain.  All  you 
need  do  to-day  is  act  natural  and  listen  close 
when  I  coach  you.  Also,  we'd  better  be  making 
tracks  for  Fort  Lee,  for  you  remember  how  sore 
Mr.  Simms  got  yesterday  when  that  Miss  Waters 
was  late." 

"Her!"  says  Inez,  scornful.  "I  think  she  no 
like  me." 

"I'm  dead  sure  of  it,  Inez,"  says  I.  "One 
seldom  is  crazy  over  the  party  who  crowds  one 
out  of  a  fat  job.  But  we  can't  help  that.  What 
we've  got  to  do  now  is  make  good  So  let's  go." 

It  looked  simple  enough,  but  somehow  I  had 
81 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

a  hunch  that  you  couldn't  break  into  the  movies 
quite  so  easy.  Not  as  a  rule.  If  you  could  there'd 
be  many  an  idle  typewriter  in  the  land,  many  a 
vacancy  behind  the  shirtwaist  counter.  And 
we'd  no  sooner  located  this  studio  over  in  Fort 
Lee  and  found  the  main  entrance  than  we  ran 
up  against  the  first  hurdle.  It  was  in  the  shape 
of  a  bald-headed,  sour-faced  person  who  sat 
tilted  back  in  a  chair  just  inside  the  door.  He 
was  puffing  away  at  a  pipe  directly  under  a  big 
"No  Smoking"  sign,  and  he  was  decorated  with 
a  tin  badge  pinned  to  one  suspender 

"Say,  where  do  you  Lizzies  think  you're 
crashin'  in?"  he  demands.  "This  ain't  no  free 
parking  space  for  up-state  tourists." 

"Not  meaning  us,  I  hope?"  says  I. 

"Yes,  youse,"  says  he.    "Back  up  there." 

"But  this  is  the  place  where  the  True  Art 
Films  Company  is  making  pictures,  isn't  it?"  I 
asks. 

"Says  so  on  the  door,  don't  it?"  he  snaps. 
"And  that's  why  they  put  me  here — to  chase  off 
neck  stretchers  like  youse.  Beat  it,  now,  before 
I  get  rough." 

"What  an  unpleasant  party!"  says  I.  "Lis- 
ten, mister;  you've  got  us  wrong.  We  belong 
to  the  company;  just  joined.  And  Miss  Peter- 
sen  here  has  been  signed  up  as  leading  lady.  So 

one  side,  please." 

82 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

"Ah,  who  do  you  think  you're  kiddin'?"  says 
he,  glancing  from  me  to  Inez  with  cold  scorn. 
"That  a  leadin'  lady!  Say,  I'm  no  sap.  Chase 
back  to  the  ferry,  both  of  you,  before  I — " 

"Remove  him,  Inez,"  says  I. 

"Hey?"  says  Inez.    "You  mean — " 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I,  motioning  with  my  thumb. 
"Outside.  It's  the  only  way  for  us  to  be  on  time. 
Now!" 

And  as  I  holds  the  door  open  Inez  grabs  him 
firmly  by  the  collar,  yanks  him  struggling  from 
the  chair,  and  tosses  him  out  into  the  sunlight 
as  easy  and  careless  as  she  would  empty  a  pan  of 
ashes  from  the  back  stoop.  I  was  just  locking 
the  door  on  the  inside  when  I  heard  a  chuckle,  and 
turned  to  find  the  director,  Mr.  Simms,  who  has 
appeared  in  time  to  see  the  end  of  the  argument. 

"Well!"  says  he.  "That's  one  way  to  get  past 
a  doorkeeper.  I'm  sorry,  young  ladies.  I  should 
have  told  Mike  about  you." 

"Oh,  that's  perfectly  all  right,  Mr.  Simms," 
says  I.  "Inez  needs  the  exercise.  And  I  guess 
Mike  will  have  his  company  manners  on  next 
time.  We  didn't  want  to  be  late,  you  see." 

He  grins,  brings  Mike  in,  and  makes  him  apolo- 
gize, and  tells  us  we're  the  first  to  show  up. 

"Fine!"  says  I.  "Maybe  you'll  have  time, 
then,  to  run  over  with  me  what  Inez  is  expected 
to  do  to-day." 

83 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Here!"  says  he,  handing  me  a  lot  of  crumpled 
typewritten  sheets.  "Perhaps  you  can  get  some- 
thing out  of  this  fool  script  while  I'm  having  the 
inside  tower  set  placed.  You'll  find  a  quiet  spot 
over  there  in  No.  3." 

And  for  the  next  half  hour  I  studied  this  typed 
puzzle,  which  was  meant  to  tell  the  story  of  how 
Queen  Fulda  tried  to  smuggle  her  lover,  Sir 
Percey  Goofus,  into  the  palace,  but  was  trapped 
by  the  old  king,  who  plotted  to  have  'em  both 
walled  up  in  a  tower  room  and  leave  'em  there 
forever.  The  yarn  was  a  good  deal  muddled, 
though,  by  cuts  to  outside  locations  that  brought 
in  other  characters. 

"Well?"  says  Inez,  who  has  camped  comfort- 
able in  a  Roman  chair  and  is  chewing  her  gum 
placid. 

"It  starts  easy  enough,"  says  I.  "You  tow 
Sir  Percey  into  the  tower  without  any  opposition 
and  you  find  that  somebody  has  set  up  what  you 
would  probably  call  a  real  swell  feed — fruit,  and 
chicken  casserole,  and  fancy  cakes.  You  think 
some  of  your  ladies  in  waiting  have  fixed  things 
up  for  you.  And  of  course,  before  you  tackle  the 
eats,  you  and  Sir  Percey  go  to  another  fond 
clinch,  just  to  show  that  you're  still  dead  in  love 
with  each  other.  There  '11  be  a  close-up  of  that 
and  you'll  have  to  make  it  as  mushy  as  you 
know  how.  Just  forget  the  make-up  on  his  face 

84 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

and  gaze  into  his  eyes  like  he  was  a  plate  of  ham 
and  eggs  and  you'd  been  all  day  without  food. 
Think  you  can  put  that  over?" 

Inez  nods  careless.    "Sure,"  says  she. 

"But  the  hard  part  comes  later,"  I  goes  on, 
"when  you've  finished  luncheon,  or  whatever  it 
is — you  don't  really  have  to  eat  all  that  stuff, 
you  know — and  you  ring  for  the  hired  girl  to 
come  for  the  tray.  Nobody  comes.  Then  you 
pull  the  bell  cord  a  couple  of  times  impatient, 
and  at  last  you  open  the  door  to  find  that  it's 
been  bricked  up.  Must  have  had  some  speedy 
bricklayers  in  those  days,  or  else  Queen  Fulda 
was  a  mighty  slow  eater.  Anyway,  there  you 
are,  penned  in  for  keeps,  and  it's  a  hard  jolt  for 
you  when  you  get  hep  to  the  low-down  trick  that 
the  old  king  has  played  on  you.  You  get  the 
idea  gradually,  you  know,  and  the  close-ups  will 
have  to  show  the  notion  filtering  down  into  your 
brain.  That  '11  call  for  business  with  the  eyes. 
Like  this — see?  Now  you  try  it.  No,  Inez,  not 
with  the  mouth,  as  if  you  were  trying  to  swallow 
him,  or  were  being  interviewed  by  a  dentist. 
Keep  the  lips  closed  and  let  the  eyes  get  big  and 
round  by  degrees,  same  as  you  blow  up  a  toy 
balloon.  Strain  'em.  Try  to  think  how  a  queen 
would  feel  in  a  case  like  that.  Nothing  to  eat 
but  shoe  leather,  nothing  to  drink,  and  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  down  and  watch  your  beloved 

85 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Percey  die  a  slow,  lingering  death.  Now  you're 
getting  the  idea.  And  if  you'll  save  that  up  and 
come  through  strong  with  it  when  I  give  you 
the  word,  it  '11  be  a  knockout." 

"We — we  get  out,  after  while,  eh?"  asks  Inez. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  says  I. 

But  say,  I  must  have  made  Inez  see  that 
starvation  act  vivid,  for  she  worked  up  a  lunch- 
eon appetite  long  before  noontime,  and  if  I  hadn't 
been  able  to  send  out  for  a  couple  of  sandwiches 
I  don't  think  we  could  have  held  her  in  the  studio. 
As  it  was,  I  had  to  get  her  into  her  royal  robes 
while  she  was  still  busy  with  a  hot  dog  and  a 
buttered  roll,  but  by  the  time  she  was  called  for 
she  was  got  up  as  one  of  the  huskiest  queens  that 
ever  faced  a  camera. 

The  scene  was  going  fine,  too,  barring  the  fact 
that  Sir  Percey  seemed  a  little  shy  about  getting 
in  near  enough  for  Inez  to  give  him  the  fond 
tackle,  and  Mr.  Simms  had  to  prod  him  two  or 
three  times. 

"Play  up,  Sir  Percey,  play  up!"  he  urges. 
"She  can't  hug  you  at  that  distance,  you  know. 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  man?" 

"Matter!"  grumbles  Sir  Percey.  "Say,  my 
ribs  are  sore  from  the  one  she  gave  me  yester- 
day.'' 

"Oh,  hang  your  ribs!"  says  Simms.  "We're 
not  trying  to  stage  a  catch-as-can  wrestling 

86 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

match.  Get  in  there.  That's  the  stuff.  Grab 
her.  Now  gaze  in  her  eyes  fond  and  passionate 
before  you  glue  your  lips  to  hers.  That's  enough. 
Kiss  her!" 

"Give  him  as  good  as  he  brings,  Inez,"  I  adds, 
"but  don't  lean  on  him  so  heavy;  you'll  buckle 
his  knees." 

And  there,  with  the  big  arc  lights  sputtering 
above,  and  the  batteries  of  blue  lights  blazing 
from  three  sides,  and  Mr.  Simms  and  me  coach- 
ing them  from  beside  the  camera,  they  put  over 
this  touching  love  scene  in  regulation  movie  fash- 
ion. Right  in  the  midst  of  it  arrives  this  slick-hair, 
pasty-faced  young  gent  with  the  prominent  beak. 

"I  say,  Simms,"  he  breaks  in,  "who  is  this?" 

"  Eh  ? "  says  Mr.  Simms,  turning  to  him.  "  Oh, 
it's  you,  is  it,  Morrie?  Mean  the  new  Queen 
Fulda?  Oh,  she's  one  I  picked  up  when  Waters 
quit  on  me.  How  do  you  like  her,  eh?" 

"Why,  she's  a  scream!"  says  Morrie.  "Not 
the  type  at  all.  Too  big,  Simms,  far  too  big. 
Might  do  in  a  Sennett  comedy — but  in  a  serious 
costume  play — never  in  the  world." 

"But  she's  getting  it  over,"  insists  Simms. 
"Watch  those  eyes  register." 

"Bah!"  says  Morrie.    "I  tell  you  she  isn't  at 
all  the  type  I  had  in  mind  when  I  wrote  the  script. 
I  won't  have  my  play  spoiled  by  any  fat  queen, 
either." 
7  87 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Oh,  come,  Morrie,  be  reasonable!"  pleads  Mr. 
Simms.  "Miss  Petersen  may  be  a  little  husky 
for  the  part,  but  if  she  does  it  well  nobody  will 
notice  that.  Besides,  you  can't  dictate  every 
detail.  I'm  the  director  here,  remember." 

"And  I'm  the  author,"  shouts  Morrie,  getting 
pink  in  the  ears.  "These  are  my  characters; 
this  is  my  story." 

"Since  when  was  it  yours?"  I  asks,  stepping 
to  the  front. 

"  Eh  ?  Whaddye  mean  ? "  he  demands.  "  Didn't 
I  write  it?" 

" Maybe,"  says  I.  "  But  Edith  Wharton  wrote 
it  first.  Why,  you've  pinched  all  this  walling-up 
business  straight  from  one  of  her  yarns.  Honest, 
Mr.  Simms,  I  can  bring  you  the  book  it's  in. 
His  story!  Bah!" 

"Who — who  the  blazes  are  you?"  asks  Morrie, 
glaring  at  me. 

"I'm  Miss  Petersen's  Svengali,"  says  I. 
"Trilby  May  Dodge,  by  name,  and  a  trainer 
of  budding  movie  stars  by  profession.  It's  a 
gift  that  I've  only  discovered  recent,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  have  the  game  bugged  by  any  two-by- 
four  studio  hack  that  steals  his  plots  from  old 
magazines." 

"Wha-a-at!"  gasps  Morrie.  "A  female  freak 
like  you  dares  to — " 

"Draw  it  easy,  Morrie,"  says  I,  "or  I'll  sic 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

the  publishers  on  you  with  a  copyright  injunc- 
tion." 

"And  I'll  back  her  up,  Morrie,"  says  Mr. 
Simms.  "It's  a  rotten  script,  anyway,  outside 
of  one  or  two  scenes,  and  you've  got  no  call  to 
get  chesty  over  it.  Now  if  you  know  when 
you're  well  off,  you'll  do  a  fade-out  and  leave 
Miss  Dodge  and  me  to  finish  this  session." 

"So  you  think  you  can  make  a  door  mat  out 
of  me  that  way,  do  you,  Bill  Simms?"  snarls 
Morrie.  "Well,  I'll  show  you.  I  was  looking 
for  some  move  like  this  when  Miss  Waters  told 
me  what  a  raw  deal  you  gave  her  yesterday. 
But  we've  got  somebody  outside  who'll  show 
you  where  you  get  off.  Mr.  Herts." 

"Oh,  gosh!"  says  Mr.  Simms. 

And  as  Morris  goes  dashing  out  Simms  explains 
tome.  "The  backer,"  says  he.  "  It's  his  money 
we're  running  on.  President  of  the  company. 
And  the  only  reason  he  strayed  from  the  cloak- 
and-suit  business  to  take  up  this  side  line  was 
because  Lou  Waters  had  a  chance  to  vamp  him. 
I  see  rocks  ahead,  Miss  Dodge,  if  he's  here." 

"Oh,  well!"  says  I.  "But  I  mean  to  stand  up 
for  Inez  to  the  last  breath." 

"It  won't  do  a  bit  of  good,  I'm  afraid,"  says 
Simms.  "And  here  they  come." 

Sure  enough,  they  were  bearing  down  on  us 
in  full  force;  first  Morrie,  with  his  black  eyes 

89 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

blazing  wrathful;  then  Miss  Lulu  Waters,  a  sneer 
curling  her  classic  lips;  and  last  of  all  this  poddy 
party  with  the  beady  little  eyes  and  the  flat, 
flabby  ears.  Mr.  Herts  comes  blinking  into  the 
studio  light,  and  don't  seem  quite  at  home.  But 
at  an  elbow  jab  from  Miss  Waters  he  gets  into 
action. 

"See  here,  Simms,"  says  he,  "I  don't  like  you 
to  treat  Miss  Waters  this  way.  You  can't  fire 
her,  understand." 

"Then  I  can't  make  the  film,"  says  Simms. 
"She  refused  to  work  yesterday." 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  Simms,"  puts  in 
Miss  Waters.  "I  declined  to  be  bullied,  that's 
all." 

"  Perfectly  right,"  says  Herts.  "You  shouldn't 
talk  that  rough  stuff  to  a  lady,  Simms." 

"And  look  what  he  had  the  nerve  to  put  in  my 
place,"  says  Miss  Waters.  "Just  take  a  look, 
Hertsy,  will  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  cuts  in,  "take  two  looks,  Mr.  Herts. 
And  stick  around  while  you  see  her  work  a  little. 
Say,  if  she  don't  look  more  like  a  queen  than 
Miss  Waters  here,  I'll  eat  the  film.  Besides,  she's 
doing  it  for  fifty  a  week,  and  if  you  know  what 
Miss  Waters  is  costing  you  you  can  figure  the 
difference. 

But  Hertsy,  old  boy,  shakes  his  head.  "I 
don't  care  for  costs,"  says  he.  "Miss  Waters  is 

90 


BREAKING  WRONG  FOR  INEZ 

a  great  artist.  I  am  going  to  make  her  known 
to  the  American  public.  So  you  and  your  fat 
friend  can  get  out/* 

"  But  I  have  engaged  them  to  finish  the  film," 
protests  Mr.  Simms. 

"Well,  well!"  says  Herts,  "that  makes  no  dif- 
ference. Pay  'em  two  weeks'  wages  and  let  'em 
go.  I  got  my  contract  with  Miss  Waters,  ain't 
I?  We  got  to  stand  by  that.  And  if  you  don't 
like  it,  Mr.  Simms,  you  can — " 

"He  needn't,"  says  I.  "If  that's  the  way  it 
stands,  we'll  quit.  Only  you  don't  know  what 
you're  missing,  I'll  say.  Come,  Inez.  It's  all 
over.  Take  off  the  royal  raiment  and  we'll  col- 
lect what's  coming  to  us/' 

We  did,  too.  Mr.  Herts  makes  out  a  check  on 
the  spot,  and  Mr.  Simms  follows  us  to  the  door. 

"Tough  luck,  Miss  Dodge,"  says  he,  "but 
what  can  you  do  with  an  old  fool  like  that?" 

"Nothing  but  revamp  him,"  says  I,  "and 
neither  Inez  nor  I  are  willing  to  tackle  the  part." 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  says  he.  "But  say,  I 
wish  you'd  leave  me  your  address.  I  may  get 
in  with  some  regular  people  before  long,  and 
might  want  to  use  you.  There's  always  a 
chance." 

So  we  hang  our  names  on  the  hook,  as  it  were, 
and  go  trailing  back  across  the  river  with  our 
chins  down  and  all  our  rosy  dreams  turned  the 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

color  of  a  slate  roof.  At  least,  that's  the  way  I 
felt,  and  I  supposed  Inez  was  in  the  same  low 
state  of  mind.  Of  course,  she  has  retrieved  her 
gum  and  is  yanking  away  with  a  regular  jaw 
stroke,  just  as  though  she  hadn't  seen  fame  and 
fortune  slip  between  her  fingers. 

Not  until  we  had  climbed  up  to  Riverside 
Drive  and  settled  ourselves  in  front  seats  on  the 
upper  deck  of  a  green  bus  did  I  have  the  heart 
to  open  the  painful  subject. 

"Well,  Inez,"  says  I,  "I  suppose  there's  no 
use  grinding  our  teeth  over  it,  but  things  certainly 
did  break  against  us.  And  Los  Angeles  seemed 
so  near." 

Inez  rolls  her  gray  eyes  at  me,  but  no  remarks 
get  through  the  gum. 

"I  was  going  to  have  the  bungalow  living 
room  done  in  oyster  white  with  lettuce-green 
hangings,  and  the  tiling  of  the  living  room  floor 
was  to  show  a  map  of  Minnesota  with  Tamarack 
Junction  indicated  by  a  red  star.  What  I  regret 
most,  though,  is  the  sport-type  speedster.  Oh, 
lady,  but  that  was  to  be  some  boat!" 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  missing  two  strokes. 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,"  says  I,  "you  are  feeling 
worse  about  not  seeing  your  name  in  electric 
lights  over  some  Broadway  movie  entrance;  or 
is  it  that  you'll  miss  more  the  daily  bushel  of 

letters  from  fans?" 

92 


"What  you  talk  about?"  demands  Inez. 

And  then  I  took  my  turn  staring  at  her. 
"You  don't  mean,  Inez,"  says  I,  "that  with 
your  fingers  almost  on  the  tail  feathers  of  success 
you  didn't  picture  the  shy  bird  roosting  on  your 
shoulder  and  cooing  soothing  notes  in  your  ear?*' 

"I  don't  see  any  bird,"  says  Inez. 

"Let  me  put  it  plainer,"  says  I.  "Didn't  you 
picture  yourself  making  a  big  hit  as  a  movie  star, 
getting  signed  up  at  a  Babe  Ruth  salary,  and 
having  things  soft  and  easy  for  the  rest  of  your 
life?" 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "Such  foolishness!" 
says  she. 

"Quite  right,"  says  I.  "But,  anyway,  you 
must  have  had  a  few  thrills  while  you  were  acting 
a  queen  part.  Now  don't  tell  me  you  didn't." 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez.  "You  get  bossed 
around  a  lot.  I  don't  like  that  so  much." 

"Who  would  suspect,  Inez,"  says  I,  looking 
at  her  curious,  "that  you  had  such  a  sensitive 
soul?  I'll  bet  I  can  name  one  little  item  of  the 
day's  work,  though,  that  you  have  no  kick  on. 
How  about  those  long,  lingering  ones  you 
swapped  with  Sir  Percey?" 

At  which  Inez  ducks  her  head  and  giggles. 

"Well?"  I  insists,  "own  up." 

"His — his  false  mustache  almost  comes  off 
once,"  she  chuckles. 

93 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

r 

"No  wonder,"  says  I.  "Only  a  real  one  could 
have  stood  the  strain  you  put  on  it.  But  that 
isn't  the  point.  I'm  asking  if  you  didn't  like  that 
part?" 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
"Too  much  grease  stuff.  Taste  like  lard." 

Which  leaves  me  speechless  for  nearly  two 
minutes,  and  that's  almost  a  record  for  me. 
"Inez,"  says  I  at  last,  "I  don't  get  you  at  all. 
I  thought  you  must  have  some  bump  of  imagina- 
tion, just  a  little  one,  but  I'm  afraid  the  place 
where  it  ought  to  be  is  a  dimple.  You  want  all 
your  romance  strained  through  the  silver  screen, 
don't  you?" 

"You  mean  we  go  to  Mister  Bill  Hart  matinee 
show?"  asks  Inez,  chirking  up. 

"Why  not?"  says  I.  "We  have  no  job  to 
bother  us." 


Chapter  VI 
Trilby  and  the  False  Alarms 

I'LL  say  this  much  for  Inez:  she's  a  self-starter. 
*  She  may  not  look  it,  with  those  placid  eyes 
and  the  restful  way  she  has  of  manipulating  her 
gum.  And  her  conversation  is  surely  as  sketchy 
as  it  can  be  made  without  using  a  code.  But 
aomehow  she  manages  to  get  things  going. 

Even  here,  when  we're  spending  a  few  workless 
and  jobless  days  at  Miss  Wellby's  boarding  house. 
And  when  we  first  came  to  this  prunery,  you 
know,  Inez  acted  just  as  much  at  home  as  if  she 
was  a  young  elephant  lately  imported  from  the 
jungle.  Of  course,  she  didn't  sway  restless  and 
flap  her  ears.  Inez  hasn't  that  kind  of  ears. 
But  for  a  week  she  hardly  took  her  eyes  off  her 
plate  during  meals,  and  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out 
of  her  when  anyone  else  was  in  the  dining  room. 
She  seemed  to  lapse  into  a  rigid,  wooden  state, 
almost  as  lifelike  as  a  dress  model  in  a  show  win- 
dow. I  understood.  Part  of  that  was  due  to  her 
Swedish  disposition  and  the  rest  was  her  back- 
woods bringing  up. 

95 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

By  degrees,  though,  she  got  so  that  she  would 
stare  around  cautious,  until  she  saw  some  one 
looking  her  way,  and  when  she  found  it  was  quite 
possible  to  size  'em  up  without  personal  injury, 
she  rolled  her  eyes  quite  a  lot. 

"Well,  Inez,"  I  asked  her  once,  "what's  your 
verdict  on  Miss  Wellby's  collection  of  homo  more- 
or-less  sapiens?" 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  blinking  suspicious  at  me. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  bunch?"  I  trans- 
lates. 

"Lotta  freaks,"  announces  Inez,  prompt. 
"Eh?" 

"Oh,  no  more  so  than  the  usual  run,"  says  I. 
"They're  strangers,  that's  all.  We  may  look 
freaky  to  them,  too,  you  know." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  unconvinced. 

"Fact,"  says  I.  "But  they're  getting  used  to 
us  and  don't  gawp  quite  as  much  as  they  did 
when  we  first  came.  Some  seem  almost  human. 
For  instance,  the  stout  lady  with  the  high  chest 
and  the  gray  streak  through  her  front  hair.  She's 
been  nodding  at  me  almost  folksy.  See!  She's 
smiling  across  at  you  now." 

"Oh  yes-s-s!"  says  Inez,  almost  returning  the 
smile.  "I  kinda  like  her." 

"She's  a  Mrs.  Marvin,  and  has  the  third-floor 
front,"  says  I.  "Ruby,  the  waitress,  told  me. 
Then  there's  the  young  lady  vamp  who  always 

96 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

wears  a  big,  floppy  hat — the  one  over  at  the  little 
table  by  the  wall.  How  about  her?" 

"Her  I  no  like,"  says  Inez.    "Stuck  up." 

"Not  necessarily,"  says  I.  "Second-floor  hall 
bedroom.  Comes  from  some  little  town  in  Mary- 
land and  is  taking  voice  culture.  Probably  a 
village  belle  who  hopes  to  break  into  grand  opera. 
Here's  a  snappy  young  person  just  drifting  in. 
Now,  how  does  he  strike  you,  Inez?" 

"Fresh,"  says  Inez. 

"None  fresher,"  says  I.  "But  you  don't  ex- 
pect a  high-class  automobile  salesman  to  be  a 
shrinking  violet,  do  you?  Ruby  says  he's  a  free 
tipper,  too,  and  she  ought  to  know.  Her  favorite, 
though,  seems  to  be  the  other  young  chap  at  the 
same  table — the  one  with  the  slick  light  hair  and 
the  smiling  blue  eyes.  I  notice  she  always  serves 
him  first." 

Inez  ventures  a  sidewise  glance  and  nods  ap- 
proving. "Kinda  nice,"  says  she.  "What's  he 
do?" 

"Let's  ask  Ruby,"  says  I.  "My  guess  is  that 
he's  a  clerk  in  a  jewelry  store,  flat  silver  depart- 
ment. Looks  sort  of  quiet  and  refined  and  as  if 
he  could  say,  'Yes,  madam,  we'll  have  them 
marked  and  sent.  Certainly,  madam."1 

But  Ruby  says  I've  made  a  poor  guess. 
"That's  Mister  Barry  Platt,"  says  she.  "Writes 
pieces  for  the  newspaper.  Smart,  he  is.  Nice 

97 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

feller,  too.  Gives  me  tickets  to  shows  some- 
times." 

"There's  your  chance,  Inez,"  says  I,  as  Ruby 
goes  out  after  two  orders  of  lamb  stew  for  us. 
"Put  the  spell  of  the  Iron  Range  on  him.  Sho^r 
him  your  dimples.  Eh?  Don't  think  you  can 
vamp  him  at  this  distance?  Say,  when  he's  so 
easy  he  gives  theater  passes  to  an  Afro-American 
brunette  from  East  One  Hundred  and  Thirty- 
fifth  Street,  a  real  ash  blonde  from  Duluth,  likt 
you,  ought  to  have  a  walk-away." 

But  Inez  only  ducks  her  head  and  simpers. 
"Maybe  you  get  acquainted  with  him  first,"  sh« 
suggests. 

"If  that's  a  defi,  watch  me,"  says  I. 

Somehow  I  had  a  hunch  that  this  Mrs.  Marvin 
was  the  one  to  get  on  chatty  terms  with  first. 
She  seemed  to  know  almost  everybody  in  the 
dining  room,  nodding  familiar  to  the  different 
tables  as  she  came  and  went,  and  stopping  here 
and  there  for  a  word.  So  I  didn't  hesitate  to 
spring  my  smile  on  her  next  time  she  passed,  and 
before  the  week  was  out  we  were  real  folksy. 

Knowing  Mrs.  Marvin  was  worth  while,  too. 
It  was  almost  as  good  as  taking  the  local  paper 
in  a  small  town.  She  could,  and  did,  tell  us  some- 
thing about  nearly  everybody  in  the  house. 
"Isn't  Miss  Wellby  a  dear?"  she  rattles  on. 
"Not  the  sort  of  person  one  usually  finds  running 

98 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

a  boarding  house.  Very  well  connected,  I  am 
told;  old  Baltimore  family — her  father  was  a 
judge  or  something.  And  there's  quite  a  romance 
about  her  not  being  married.  She  was  a  beauty 
at  nineteen  and  became  engaged  to  a  young  man 
she  met  in  Washington,  some  one  connected  with 
a  foreign  embassy.  It  turned  out  that  he  was 
really  of  royal  blood  and  wasn't  allowed  to  marry 
out  of  his  class.  And  after  an  affair  such  as  that 
— well?"  At  which  Mrs.  Marvin  spreads  out 
her  hands. 

"Naturally,"  says  I.  "If  one  can't  be  a  prin- 
cess one  can  at  least  be  a  landlady." 

"Oh,  that  happened  years  later,  after  she'd 
lost  nearly  all  her  property,"  explains  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin. "You've  noticed  that  sweet  little  Miss 
Polly  Powell,  too,  haven't  you?  The  one  in  the 
picture  hat.  She  has  a  wonderful  voice,  theysay, 
but  I  do  hope  it  isn't  so  that  she's  thinking  of 
going  on  at  the  Winter  Garden  in  the  chorus. 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  shame?" 

I  agreed  that  it  would;  not  that  I  begrudged 
that  particular  chorus  something  which  would 
make  it  easy  to  listen  to  as  well  as  easy  to  see, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  the  thing  to  say. 

Also,  Mrs.  Marvin  told  us  that  the  lame  man 
with  the  very  pink  bald  head  was  Mr.  Campbell, 
a  Scotch  clerk  in  the  linen  department  of  a  big 
Fifth  Avenue  store,  and  that  he  was  a  good  deal 

99 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

of  a  grouch,  but  wrote  every  Sunday  to  his  old 
mother  in  Glasgow,  and  never  read  any  other 
newspaper  than  the  Glasgow  Herald,  which  came 
every  Friday.  She  pointed  out  a  dried-up  little 
old  lady  who  wore  a  neck  ruff  and  a  big  cameo 
pin,  and  whispered  that  years  ago  she  had  been 
named  as  co-respondent  in  a  sensational  divorce 
case,  but  that  now  she  was  quite  respectable  and 
had  a  married  daughter  living  in  Flushing. 

"Really!"  says  I.  "And  how  about  the  two 
young  men  at  your  left  ?  Anything  thrilling  about 
them?" 

"Oh,  you  mean  Barry  Platt  and  Penfield 
White?"  says  Mrs.  Marvin.  "Barry  is  such  a 
nice  boy,  but  so  quiet.  He's  trying  to  write  a 
play.  And  Penny's  a  good  sport.  Plays  good 
game  of  bridge,  goes  around  a  lot.  They  room 
together,  though  I  shouldn't  think  they'd  be  a 
bit  congenial.  Men  are  odd  that  way.  But 
then,  so  are  women,  too,  at  times.  Now,  you 
two  girls  are  such  opposite  types,  yet  you  seem 
to  be  great  friends.  Always  known  each  other, 
have  you?" 

So  I  had  to  sketch  out  for  her  how  Inez  and  I 
met  for  the  first  time  at  Tamarack  Junction  only 
two  years  ago,  how  we  toured  Minnesota  as  a 
waitress  team,  and  how  we  had  come  to  New 
York  to  look  for  an  Uncle  Nels,  who  seemed  to 

be  permanently  lost  in  the  discards. 

100 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

"Isn't  that  interesting!"  says  Mrs.  Marvin. 
"Why,  Mr.  Marvin  makes  Duluth  every  season 
on  his  Western  trip.  Building  hardware  is  his 
line,  you  know,  and  he  simply  despises  being  on 
the  road,  because  he  has  to  be  away  from  me  so 
much.  I  get  frightfully  lonesome,  too,  but  he 
hopes  to  be  made  Eastern  sales  manager  next 
year,  and  then  we  shall  have  a  home  of  our  own, 
a  dear  little  apartment  where  I  can  cook  dainty 
things  when  I  feel  like  it,  and  entertain  my 
friends.  I'm  horribly  domestic,  you  know." 

"Yes?"  says  I.  I  shouldn't  have  guessed  it  if 
she  hadn't  said  so,  but  I  tried  not  to  look  sur- 
prised. 

Anyway,  after  a  few  more  chats  with  Mrs. 
Marvin  we  almost  felt  as  though  we'd  lived  at 
Mrs.  Wellby's  for  years.  The  different  people 
seemed  a  lot  more  like  regular  persons,  and  we 
got  to  nodding  friendly  to  a  few  of  'em.  Inez 
was  especially  taken  with  Mrs.  Marvin.  She's  a 
prize  listener,  Inez,  and  while  at  first  she'd  sit 
with  her  ears  open  and  her  lips  shut,  at  last 
she  got  so  she'd  chatter  away  folksy,  say- 
ing almost  a  dozen  words  during  a  half-hour 
session. 

And  it  must  have  been  once  when  I  wasn't 
present,  about  the  time  Inez  was  enjoying  her 
one-day  engagement  as  a  movie  actress,  that  she 
shattered  all  her  speech  records  and  confided  in 

101 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Mrs.  Marvin  the  full  details  of  her  wonderful 
run  of  luck.  I  didn't  guess  it  at  the  time,  but  it 
came  out  a  little  later. 

To  be  e&act,  this  was  the  third  day  of  our  big 
loaf,  after  I'd  convinced  Inez  that  with  a  whole 
hundred  dollars  to  the  good  there  was  no  need  of 
our  rushing  frantic  into  some  job  that  we  wouldn't 
care  for.  It  seemed  to  worry  Inez  to  be  without 
any  regular  work,  even  for  a  short  time,  but  I 
persuaded  her  that  the  wheels  of  commerce 
would  spin  along  just  the  same  if  we  kept  our 
hands  off  for  a  little  while. 

So  on  this  particular  evening  we  were  lingering 
over  the  dessert — canned  peaches  and  bakery 
jelly  roll — and  chatting  with  Mrs.  Marvin,  when 
Ruby  comes  in  with  the  big  announcement: 

"Genn'leman  to  see  Miss  Petersen,"  says  she. 
"He— he's  her  uncle." 

"Wha-a-t!"  says  I.  "What  makes  you  think 
he's  her  uncle?" 

"He  says  so,"  says  Ruby. 

"He — he  got  whiskers?"  demands  Inez. 

"Mustache,"  says  Ruby.  "Funny  ol'  gink. 
Tall  hat,  cane,  an'  all." 

"The  rich  uncle  at  last!"  says  Mrs.  Marvin, 
patting  Inez  on  the  shoulder.  "Isn't  that 
splendid!" 

As  usual,  Inez  is  taking  it  calm,  or  seems  to 
be.  The  real  facts  are,  though,  that  as  yet  the 

102 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

idea  has  only  begun  to  percolate  down  through 
the  bony  part. 

"Uncle  Nels?"  asks  Inez,  turning  to  me. 

"That's  the  rumor,"  says  I.  "But  if  it  is,  he 
must  have  second  sight  or  be  mighty  clever  with 
the  ouija  board.  How  could  he  know  you  were 
here?  Where  have  you  parked  him,  Ruby?" 

"Front  parlor,"  says  Ruby.  "He  gotta  big 
box  of  candy." 

"Oh!"  says  Inez.  "That's  Uncle  Nels,  surel 
I  must  fix  my  hair." 

"Of  course,"  chimes  in  Mrs.  Marvin.  "And 
hadn't  you  better  change  your  blouse  for  that 
fetching  champagne-colored  net  affair ?  You 
want  to  look  your  best,  you  know." 

"Sure!"  says  Inez. 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "You  help  her  doll  up, 
Mrs.  Marvin,  while  I  hold  Uncle  Nels  in  the 
parlor." 

I'll  admit  I  was  a  bit  excited,  myself.  It  was 
natural  enough,  for  long  ago  I'd  given  up  ever 
finding  this  rich  uncle  that  Inez  had  talked  so 
much  about.  I'd  almost  come  to  believe  he  was 
a  myth;  and  here,  just  as  we're  wondering  what 
we'll  do  next,  he  appears  like  a  bolt  from  the 
blue,  or  words  to  that  effect.  I  wondered  if  he'd 
come  in  his  limousine.  As  I  went  through  the 
front  hall  I  took  a  peek  outside,  but  I  couldn't 
locate  any  classy  motor. 
8  103 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

And  when  I  spots  this  freaky-looking  old  boy 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  with  an  antique 
Ben  Harrison  lid  balanced  on  his  knees,  I  was 
some  disappointed.  Of  course,  knowing  that  the 
Petersen  family  had  been  shipped  into  Minne- 
sota with  yellow  immigrant  tags  tied  to  'em  only 
a  generation  ago,  I  wasn't  looking  for  any  snappy 
dresser  like  Bob  Lafolette  or  Charles  Evan 
Hughes.  Still,  why  should  a  retired  lumber 
plute  wear  a  shiny  black  frock  with  the  silk 
facing  showing  soup  spots,  and  a  gray  mustache 
yellowed  by  cigarette  smoke?  But  for  all  that 
he's  well  up  on  the  fond-uncle  lines.  I'd  no 
sooner  poked  my  head  in  the  room  than  he  jumps 
up  prompt,  dumps  the  ancient  lid  and  the  candy 
box  on  the  sofa,  and  opens  his  arms. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Inez!"  says  he,  and  I  had  to 
block  off  an  impetuous  clinch  by  shoving  him 
away  with  both  hands. 

"Wrong  number,"  says  I.  "Say,  take  another 
look,  and  then  tell  me  if  I  have  any  of  the  ear- 
marks of  a  Petersen?" 

"But — but,  I  was  informed,"  he  begins, 
"that—" 

"Oh,  she's  here,  all  right,"  says  L  "Inez '11 
be  down  in  a  minute.  I'm  just  her  friend,  Trilby 
May  Dodge.  So  you're  her  lost  Uncle  Nels,  are 
you  ? " 

"I  have  that  honor,"  says  he. 
104 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

"Now,  that's  putting  it  real  polite,  I'll  say," 
says  I. 

"Not  at  all,"  says  he.  "Dear  Inez  always  was 
my  favorite  niece,  and  I  was  not  a  bit  surprised 
to  learn  that  she  had  developed  into  a  fascinating 
and  talented  young  woman." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  staring  at  him.  "Where  do 
you  get  that  dope?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  "is  it  not  true  that— 

But  just  then  Ruby  sidles  in  from  the  front 
hall  and  starts  wigwagging  excited,  with  most  of 
the  whites  of  her  eyes  showing. 

"Just  a  moment,"  says  I,  excusing  myself, 
and  slips  out  to  see  what  has  worked  her  up  to 
such  a  state. 

And  I  find  her  holding  back  a  slim,  neat 
dressed,  pink-cheeked  old  party,  with  white  hair 
and  a  red  necktie. 

"Well,  Ruby,"  I  whispers,  "who's  this?" 

"He — he's  Uncle  Nels,  too,"  stammers  Ruby. 

"Wha-a-a-at?"  I  asks,  gaspy.  "Another! 
Sure  you  haven't  got  it  twisted?  Here,  let  me 
talk  to  him.  Who  is  it  you're  looking  for, 
mister?" 

"For  my  dear  niece,  Inez  Petersen,"  says  he. 
"Can  it  be  that  this  is  the  little  girl  I  used  to — " 

"Back  up,"  says  I.    "It  can't  be  anything  of 
the  kind.     I  wouldn't  make  more  than  half  of 
Inez.    You're  her  Uncle  Nels,  are  you?" 
._  105 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 
'I  am,"  says  he,  "and  I  am  most  anxious 


"Naturally,"  I  breaks  in.  "She'll  be  right 
down,  too,  and  if  you'll  wait  here  for  a  minute 
I'll  arrange  for  the  reunion." 

With  that  I  slips  into  the  front  room,  grabs 
entry  No.  I  by  the  arm,  and  leads  him  into  the 
back  parlor. 

"Sorry,"  says  I,  "but  I'll  have  to  shift  you  in 
here." 

"Is  my  niece  coming  soon?"  he  asks. 

"You  bet,"  says  I,  "but  there's  such  a  rush  of 
callers  on  to-night  that —  There's  the  bell 
again!" 

I  had  just  time  to  hustle  No.  2  into  the  front 
parlor  when  I  hears  Ruby  assuring  a  third  party 
that  this  is  where  Miss  Petersen  lives,  so  I  shuts 
the  door  and  steps  out  where  this  poddy  person 
with  pop  eyes  and  the  prominent  store  teeth  was 
waiting  with  a  sad  bunch  of  half-wilted  roses  in 
one  hand  and  a  dusty  felt  hat  in  the  other. 

"Can  it  be  Uncle  Nels?"  says  I. 

"Inez!"  says  he,  dramatic,  as  he  reaches  out 
to  fold  me  in  on  the  chip  diamond  pin  which 
ornaments  his  shirt  front.  But  by  this  time  my 
footwork  was  getting  good.  I  side-stepped  him 
skillful. 

"My,  but  you're  easy  pleased  when  it  comes 
to  nieces,  aren't  you?"  says  I.  "Do  I  look  like 

106 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

I  -was  one  hundred  per  cent  Swede?  Say,  hold 
back  the  pent-up  affections  until  you  get  the 
right  dope.  I'm  Miss  Dodge,  and  there  are 
times  when  it's  lucky  for  me  that  I  can  live  up 
to  my  name." 

"Pardon  me,  miss,"  says  he,  "but  I  was  told 
that  Inez  Petersen — " 

"That's  right,  too,"  says  I.  "How  long  have 
you  been  her  uncle?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  "I  was — that  is,  I've  been 
her  uncle  ever  since  she  was  born." 

"That  ought  to  qualify  you  for  the  part,  then," 
says  I.  "Anyway,  it  gets  you  on  the  waiting  list. 
Step  inside,  please." 

"Waiting  list?"  says  he.  "I — I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  says  I.  "The  front  parlor 
isn't  crowded  yet,  and  Inez  will  be  down  to  meet 
you  presently.  This  way."  And  I  shunted  him 
in  with  the  other  old  sport. 

I  had  turned  for  a  dash  upstairs  after  Inez 
when  Ruby  lets  in  a  fourth  party,  a  spectacled 
young  hick  with  a  college  band  around  his  straw 
hat,  no  vest,  and  a  soft  collar.  He  couldn't  have 
been  a  day  over  twenty-two. 

"Now,  come,  buddy,"  says  I,  "don't  tell  m« 
you're  Miss  Petersen's  uncle." 

"Oh,  most  decidedly  no,"  says  he,  almost 
blushing.  "Nothing  of  the  sort." 

107 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Not  even  a  cousin,  eh?"  says  I.  "Then 
what's  the  merry  idea?  Who  and  why?'* 

"Reporter,"  says  he.  "I  understood  that  a 
Miss  Petersen  was  to  meet  her  long-lost  uncle 
here  to-night  and — " 

"You're  a  grand  little  guesser,"  says  I,  "al- 
though how  you  do  it  is  past  me.  Yes,  this  is 
the  spot,  and  the  touching  spectacle  is  to  be 
pulled  off  right  in  here  just  as  soon  as  I  can — 
There,  Ruby.  See  if  that's  another  candidate." 

It  was.  He's  a  round-faced,  rather  good-look- 
ing middle-aged  gent,  who  holds  a  newspaper 
clipping  in  his  hand. 

"Pass  him  in  with  the  others,  Ruby,"  says  I. 
"I've  got  to  interview  Inez  and  find  out  exactly 
how  long  on  stray  uncles  she  happens  to  be,  for 
if  there  are  many  more  we  ought  to  rent  a  hall. 
Just  line  'em  up  in  there  as  they  come." 

And  upstairs  I  burst  in  on  Mrs.  Marvin  and 
Inez  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  an  elaborate 
coiffure  which  made  Inez  look  more  than  ever 
like  a  corn  -  fed  goddess  of  liberty  who  had 
dropped  the  torch  for  the  curling  tongs. 

"Is — is  Uncle  Nels  there  yet?"  asks  Inez. 

"The  returns  aren't  all  in,"  says  I,  "but  there's 
enough  for  a  quorum,  if  that's  what  you  want  to 
know." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  demands  Mrs. 
Marvin. 

108 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

"More  or  less  what  I  said,"  says  I.  "Both 
parlors  were  filling  up  with  lost  uncles  when  I 
left.  Inez,  tell  me  something,  How  many 
brothers  did  your  mother  have  in  this  or  any 
other  country?" 

"She — she  got  only  one,"  says  Inez.  "Except 
two  who  die  in  Sweden." 

"We  needn't  count  the  dead  ones,"  says  I. 
"You're  positive  there  was  only  one  alive  at  the 
last  census?" 

Inez  nods.    "Only  Uncle  Nels,"  says  she. 

"Then  there's  something  wrong  somewhere," 
says  I.  "Four  Uncle  Nelses  had  been  parked 
in  the  parlors  when  I  came  away,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  procession  had  just  started." 

"Fourl"  squeals  Mrs.  Marvin.  "Why,  how 
odd!" 

"Yes,  it's  all  of  that,"  says  I.  "And  if  you 
don't  mind  my  mentioning  it,  it's  a  little  puzzling 
to  know  what  to  do." 

"Why,  that  should  be  simple,"  says  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin. "Let  Inez  go  down  and  pick  out  the  right 
uncle." 

"Think  you  could,  Inez?"  I  asks. 

"I — I  dunno,"  says  Inez.  "I  don't  see  Uncle 
Nels  since  I  was  little." 

"And  uncles  are  so  shifty  in  their  looks,"  says 
I,  "especially  those  who  drift  off  by  themselves, 
get  rich,  and  change  their  names.  So  it  would  be 

109 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

hard  choosing,  wouldn't  it?  The  collection,  so 
far,  isn't  an  especially  choice  one,  either.  They're 
all  very  fond  of  you,  though,  Inez;  I'll  say  that 
for  them.  They're  the  hug-on-sight  kind." 

"Yes-s-s?"  says  Inez,  her  eyes  getting  big. 

We  were  still  in  the  midst  of  the  debate  when 
a  rap  came  at  the  door,  and  there  was  Miss  Well- 
by,  looking  shocked  and  indignant. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me,  Miss  Dodge,"  says 
she,  "what  all  those  strange  men  are  doing  in  my 
parlors?" 

"All?"  says  I.    "How  many  did  you  count?" 

"Nine  or  ten,"  says  she.    "Who  are  they?" 

"Well,"  says  I,  "barring  one  or  two  reporters, 
most  of  them  are  Inez's  lost  uncles." 

"But  I — I  don't  understand,"  says  she. 

"Neither  do  we,"  says  I.  "They  began  to 
come  about  an  hour  ago,  and  the  supply  hasn't 
given  out.  Begins  to  look  like  a  convention, 
doesn't  it?" 

"But  it — it's  absurd,"  says  Miss  Wellby. 
"Something  must  be  done  about  it." 

"Quite  right,"  says  I.  "And  as  Inez  seems  to 
be  suffering  from  shell  shock,  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  be  the  goat.  Let's  all  go  down  and  have  a 
look  at  the  congregation." 

I  wasn't  a  bit  cheered  up,  either,  when  we 
struck  the  lower  hall,  to  see  Ruby  steering  in  a 
late  arrival.  He  was  a  shabby  little  man  with  a 

no 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

long  nose,  and  he,  too,  had  a  piece  torn  from  a 
newspaper.  That  gave  me  my  first  hunch.  I 
stepped  in  prompt  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"I'll  take  the  clipping,  please,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  thanks,'*  says  he.  "And  may  I  see  Miss 
Inez  Peter — " 

"Perhaps,"  says  I.  "Line's  busy  now.  Push 
in  and  find  a  chair  if  you  can." 

"Why,"  says  Mrs.  Marvin,  "I  saw  Barry 
Platt  in  there!  It  may  be  that  he  can  tell  us 
something." 

"Wait!"  says  I.    "This  looks  like  a  clue." 

And  I  hadn't  read  more  than  a  few  lines  from 
the  newspaper  piece  before  we  all  began  to  get 
an  inkling — that  is,  all  except  Inez.  The  heading 
alone  almost  told  the  whole  story.  "Screen  Fa- 
vorite Searching  For  Rich  Uncle."  And  then  it 
went  on  to  relate  how  the  beautiful  blond  movie 
star,  Miss  Inez  Petersen,  who  had  recently  been 
engaged  as  leading  lady  in  the  latest  True  Art 
production,  had  come  all  the  way  from  her  home 
in  Duluth  to  hunt  for  a  wealthy  uncle  who  had 
disappeared  from  that  city  several  years  ago 
and  was  believed  to  be  living  in  New  York  under 
an  assumed  name. 

It's  one  of  those  human-interest  yarns  where 
plain  facts  are  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  any 
frills  of  fancy  that  might  produce  heart  throbs. 
And  at  the  end  there's  a  paragraph  which  sug- 

iii 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

gests  that  if  Miss  Petersen's  Uncle  Nels  really  is 
in  town  he  ought  to  drop  in  at  such  a  number 
West  Fifty-seventh  Street  almost  any  evening 
soon,  and  soothe  the  fears  of  an  anxious  heart. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "So  you've  been  telling  some 
reporter  the  story  of  your  life,  have  you,  Inez  ? " 

"Me?"  says  Inez.  "I  don't  see  any  reporters. 
Never.  I  tell  Mrs.  Marvin,  that's  all." 

"Oh!"  says  I,  turning  to  the  friendly  lady. 
"Then  it  was  you?" 

"Why,"  says  she,  "I — I  may  have  mentioned 
something  of  the  kind  to  Barry  Platt.  But  he's 
such  a  nice  boy  I  didn't  think  he  would — " 

"Evidently  he  has,"  says  I.  "And  he's  some 
press  agent,  if  you  ask  me.  Of  course,  I  don't 
doubt  that  he  meant  all  right.  He  couldn't  guess 
that  New  York  was  full  of  volunteer  uncles  for 
lovely  movie  actresses.  I  wouldn't  have,  either. 
But  that  seems  to  be  the  case.  There  are  enough 
for  a  couple  of  jury  panels,  and  this  paper  hasn't 
been  on  the  street  but  a  few  hours." 

"Just  suppose,  though,"  puts  in  Mrs.  Marvin, 
"that  one  of  them  should  be  her  real  uncle  who 
had  read  that  story  and  come  to  find  her." 

"Yes,"  says  I.    "There's  that  chance." 

"How  you  find  out?"  demands  Inez,  who  has 
been  peering  through  the  door. 

"Whatever  you  do,"  says  Miss  Wellby,  "I 
trust  you  will  not  be  long  about  it." 

112 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

"I'll  make  it  as  snappy  as  I  can,  never  fear," 
says  I.  "Now,  let's  see;  what's  the  acid  test  for  a 
genuine  uncle  ?  Ah,  I  think  I  have  it !  Here,  Inez, 
a  word  on  the  side  with  you.  Yes,  back  here  in 
the  corner.  And  whisper  the  answer  in  my  ear." 

She  did  it.  Then  I  borrowed  a  writing  pad  and 
some  pencils  from  Miss  Wellby,  took  Inez  by  the 
hand,  and  marched  into  the  front  parlor.  I  suppose 
I  should  have  been  scared  stiff,  but  I  wasn't.  As 
perhaps  you  have  noticed  I  don't  get  fussed 
very  easy.  I  stood  there  with  my  chin  out  and 
asked  the  delegates  in  the  back  room  to  move  up. 

"That's  right,"  says  I.  "It's  a  bit  crowded, 
but  perhaps  we  sha'n't  keep  you  long.  To  begin 
with,  will  all  of  you  who  are  not  Miss  Petersen's 
uncle,  please  group  yourselves  in  front  of  the 
mantelpiece?  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  Three, 
four,  five.  All  reporters,  I  take  it?" 

"Not  me,"  says  the  shabby  little  man  with  the 
long  nose.  "I  represent  the  Watchful  Eye  De- 
tective Agency  and  I'd  like  a  word  with — " 

"You're  excused,"  says  I.  "Call  to-morrow 
about  noon.  Now  for  the  uncles.  Here,  gentle- 
men, is  Miss  Inez  Petersen.  She  isn't  a  movie 
star  any  more.  In  fact,  she  had  only  a  two  days' 
trial  at  it  and  was  fired.  At  present  she  has  no 
job  of  any  kind  and  a  very  low  cash  reserve.  So 
you  see  she  could  use  a  rich  uncle  now — and  he 
needn't  be  so  scandalously  rich  at  that." 

"3 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

There  was  a  little  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  back 
rows  about  then,  but  I  held  up  my  hand.  "Don't 
anybody  leave  yet,"  says  I,  "for  Inez  is  anxious 
not  to  miss  any  real  uncles  that  may  happen  to 
be  present.  True,  she  has  only  one  Uncle  Nels, 
so  some  of  you  must  be  trying  to  horn  in.  But  I 
think  we  can  sift  out  the  genuine,  dyed-in-the- 
wool  article.  Barry  Platt,  will  you  help  untangle 
this  mess  you've  got  us  into?  Then  pass  around 
these  slips  of  paper  and  borrow  the  tall  gentle- 
man's silk  hat.  Are  you  all  set  ?  Everybody  got 
his  ballot?  Then  write  the  name  of  your  dear 
sister,  who  was  Miss  Petersen's  mother.  Yes, 
that's  all.  Her  maiden  name.  And  I  may  say 
that  any  uncle  who  can't  remember  his  own 
sister's  name  Miss  Petersen  hasn't  any  use  for. 
Oh,  come!  Don't  scratch  your  heads  and  chew 
those  pencils  that  way.  Or  if  you  want  to  with- 
draw your  entry  simply  drop  your  blank  ballot 
in  the  hat  and  pass  out.  Ruby,  have  the  front 
door  open." 

It  was  the  pink-cheeked  old  boy  with  the  red 
necktie  who  started  the  parade,  and  after  that 
they  crowded  on  his  heels  as  fast  as  if  they  were 
taking  part  in  a  fire  drill  and  were  not  sure  they 
didn't  smell  smoke.  Inside  of  two  minutes  not 
a  candidate  was  left,  and  the  group  of  reporters 
were  standing  there  wearing  broad  grins. 

"Sorry,  buddies,"  says  I,  "but  the  Petersea 
114 


TRILBY  AND  THE  FALSE  ALARMS 

family  reunion  seems  to  have  been  called  off. 
Better  luck  next  time." 

But  say,  what  those  fresh  young  hicks  can't 
think  up  to  put  in  the  papers!  I  didn't  mind 
what  they  said  about  my  carroty  hair,  or  the 
freckles;  but  that  part  about  my  having  Portia 
acting  like  a  tongue-tied  old  maid  who'd  just  had 
her  tonsils  out — that  was  almost  personal. 


Chapter  VII 
A  Window  Hound  on  the  Trail 

TT  took  Inez  a  couple  of  days  to  really  get  the 
*•  full  effect  of  this  sudden  rush  of  fake  uncles, 
and  even  then  she  don't  seem  to  be  quite  sure  as 
to  just  what  has  happened.  Chiefly  she  is  im- 
pressed by  the  fact  that  all  those  fresh  reporters, 
who  had  horned  in  on  follow-up  tips  after  Barry 
Platt  had  printed  that  first  article  about  Inez 
and  her  hunt  for  a  rich  uncle,  had  gone  off  and 
written  a  lot  of  flip  stuff  about  us.  She  has  cut 
out  all  the  pieces  and  has  read  them  over  and 
over,  finally  putting  them  carefully  away  in  the 
fancy  sweet-grass  basket  where  she  keeps  her 
near-turquoise  beads  and  her  spare  lingerie  pins. 

"We — we  get  our  name  in  the  papers.  Hey?" 
she  observes. 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "Made  the  front  page 
in  two  morning  editions  and  earned  an  editorial 
squib  in  one  of  the  evening  sheets.  What  of  it?" 

"Kinda  swell,  eh?"  says  Inez. 

"If  you  want  to  take  it  that  way,"  says  I. 
"As  for  me,  I'm  not  so  sure.  I  feel  as  though  I'd 

116 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

been  kidded  before  a  big  crowd.  Still,  I  can 
stand  that.  If  New  York  can't  find  anything 
better  to  laugh  at  than  two  honest  working  goils 
like  us,  let  'em  go  to  it.  I  got  a  few  grins  out  of 
that  affair  myself." 

Inez  makes  a  try  at  sorting  out  these  mixed 
sentiments,  but  gives  it  up.  "By  Duluth,"  says 
she,  "they  don't  do  that." 

"We  had  no  such  active  press  agent  as  this 
Platt  person  in  Duluth,"  says  I,  "and  you  hadn't 
started  looking  for  your  Uncle  Nels." 

"Maybe  he  come  yet,"  says  Inez,  letting  down 
about  a  yard  of  wheat-colored  hair  over  a  set 
of  shoulders  that  would  have  a  marble  Venus 
looking  like  an  Art  League  copy  done  in  brick 
clay. 

"I  doubt  it,"  says  I.  "You're  almost  as  much 
of  an  optimist,  Inez,  as  a  cellarless  sport  who  goes 
out  and  buys  a  new  cocktail  shaker  on  a  rumor 
that  Milwaukee  has  elected  a  wet  city  council; 
but  more  than  ever  I  mistrust  that  your  Uncle 
Nels  is  not  among  those  present." 

"You — you  mean  he  don't  live  any  more?" 
she  asks. 

"I  wouldn't  put  it  as  tragic  as  that,"  says  I. 
"Isn't  more  than  fifty  or  so,  is  he?  And  those 
retired  lumberjacks  are  apt  to  be  tough  old  boys. 
So  he  may  be  knocking  around  somewhere  on 
the  map.  But  not  in  New  York.  If  he  was, 

117 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

wouldn't  he  have  heard  how  you  were  searching 
for  him,  with  all  the  free  advertising  you've  had? 
And  he's  had  three  or  four  days  to  show  up  in, 
with  not  so  much  as  a  post  card  from  him.  Or 
else,  when  he  cut  loose  from  the  Petersen  family 
eight  or  ten  years  back,  he  meant  it  to  be  a  final 
break,  and  is  sticking  to  his  vow.  What  did  you 
folks  ever  do  to  Uncle  Nels  that  would  cause  him 
to  work  up  a  chronic  grouch?" 

Inez  shrugs  the  alabaster  shoulders.  "I  dun- 
no,"  says  she.  "He  get  rich,  we  stay  poor,  and 
he  don't  come  round  any  more." 

"Sad,  but  human,"  says  I.  "Anyway,  there 
you  have  it.  He  has  been  as  thoroughly  paged  as 
if  you'd  gone  through  every  street  shouting  for 
him  with  a  megaphone.  And  the  net  result  was 
a  lot  of  old  frauds  who  shuffled  out  foolish  when 
I  put  them  to  the  acid  test.  So  it  looks  as  if  he 
wasn't  here.  Might  have  gone  back  to  Sweden 
and  bought  his  way  into  the  dried-fish  and  safety- 
match  aristocracy.  Maybe  he's  Count  Tand- 
sticktor  by  this  time.  Or  he  may  be  utterly  and 
totally  deceased.  You'd  look  well  in  black,  Inez, 
if  you  would  care  to  let  your  grief  carry  you  that 
far." 

"If  Uncle  Nels  dies  I  should  hear,"  says  Inez, 
decided. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "His  may  not 
have  been  a  noisy  finish.  Some  uncles  expire 

118 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

quietly  and  with  very  little  fuss.  What  you 
mean,  I  suppose,  is  that  he  would  have  sent  word 
about  it.  They  don't  always  do  that,  either. 
They  get  careless.  And  then,  it's  apt  to  be  a 
busy  time  for  them." 

Inez  gives  me  a  wooden  stare,  indicating  that 
she's  lost  the  thread  and  is  simply  waiting  until 
I  get  to  talking  rational  again. 

"Never  mind,"  says  I.  "You  may  be  per- 
fectly right  not  to  give  him  up,  and  if  it's  going 
to  help  you  any  to  be  able  to  mention  casually 
that  you  have  a  rich  uncle  kicking  around  some- 
where, why  keep  right  on.  Only,  Inez  dear,  let's 
not  feed  the  tale  to  any  more  cub  reporters.  I'm 
afraid  Barry  Platt  has  strained  his  imagination 
on  us  already.  Besides,  getting  into  the  public 
prints  that  way  makes  us  so  conspicuous. 
Haven't  you  noticed  how  all  the  boarders  stare 
when  we  come  into  the  dining  room?" 

"I  no  care  for  that,"  says  Inez,  lifting  her 
broad  chin. 

"Don't  tell  me  youVe  swallowed  the  publicity 
bug,  Inez,"  says  I.  "At  least,  I  hope  you'll  stop 
short  of  subscribing  to  a  clipping  bureau  or 
wanting  to  distribute  photos  with  your  name 
written  across  the  bust  and  right  shoulder.  Per- 
sonally, I'm  strong  for  a  quiet,  unreported  career, 
with  as  much  privacy  as  one  can  get  in  a  board- 
ing house." 
9  \  119 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

But  I  could  see  that  Inez  wasn't  with  me.  It 
had  been  only  a  few  short  weeks  since  we  had 
slipped  into  town  about  as  gawpy  and  verdant, 
from  the  Manhattan  point  of  view,  as  any  pair 
from  north  of  Chicago  well  could  be.  But  we'd 
been  moving  along  some.  We  had  served  as 
orangeade  dippers  in  an  upper  Broadway  side- 
walk booth,  then  we  had  broken  into  the  movie 
business  for  a  brief  whirl,  and  then  had  come  this 
uncle  plebiscite  with  all  the  newspaper  notices. 
And  Inez  would  never  be  the  same  girl  again. 
She  had  stood  in  the  white  light  that  beats  upon 
a  throne,  as  it  were,  and  while  she  didn't  quite 
know  what  it  was  all  about,  she  rather  liked  it. 
She  was  going  to  want  more  of  the  same  and  I 
couldn't  see  how  I  was  to  get  it  for  her. 

Not  until  I  had  this  talk  with  Mr.  Campbell, 
the  linen  expert  from  the  department  store. 
You  see,  since  the  other  night,  everybody  at 
Miss  Wellby's  has  taken  to  speaking  to  us,  as  if 
we  were  sort  of  public  characters  that  they  didn't 
need  an  introduction  to.  Even  this  grouchy 
Scotchman  with  the  game  leg  and  the  bald 
head. 

"If  you  should  be  wanting  a  temporary  seetua- 
tion,  Miss  Dodge,"  says  he,  "I  have  something 
in  mind." 

"How  sweet  of  you,  Mr.  Campbell!"  says  I. 

"Unload  it,  will  you?" 

1 20 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

And  he  tells  me  how  a  personal  friend  of  his, 
Mr.  Mclntosh,  in  charge  of  the  house  furnishings, 
is  going  to  need  two  young  ladies  to  demonstrate 
an  electric  washing  machine  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "In  some  secluded  spot  in  the 
subbasement,  eh?" 

"I  believe  it  is  to  take  place  in  a  show  window," 
says  he. 

"Say,  that  listens  something  like,"  says  I. 
"Of  course,  what  I  don't  know  about  electric 
washers  is  monumental,  but  I  expect  I  could 
learn  the  patter.  Or  is  this  to  be  entirely 
pantomime?" 

He  explains  that  the  show  window  opens  into 
a  main  inside  aisle  and  that  at  least  one  of  us 
would  have  to  do  considerable  talking,  as  well  as 
take  orders.  The  other  could  work  the  machine. 

"Me  for  the  speaking  part,"  says  I,  "and  Inez 
in  spotless  white  would  be  perfectly  stunning  as 
a  lady  laundress.  Tell  your  rainy-day  friend  not 
to  put  in  that  want  ad.  until  he's  seen  us.  We'll 
be  down  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

We  were,  too.  And  I  sure  gave  Mackintosh 
a  classy  line  of  conversation  as  a  sample.  "If 
there's  any  one  thing  I  could  be  real  eloquent 
about,  Mr.  Mackintosh,"  says  I,  "it's  a  back- 
saver  like  this.  Why,  say,  I  used  to  beat  the  sun 
up  by  an  hour  every  Monday  morning  when 
I  was  living  out  near  Tamarack  Junction,  Min- 

121 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

nesota,  just  so  I  could  get  steam  up  in  the  old 
iron  kettle,  and  by  breakfast  time  I'd  be  rubbing 
away  on  the  zinc  board  like  I  was  training  to  win 
the  gold  sculls  in  an  international  rowing  regatta. 
Only  ten  in  the  Dodge  family,  and  before  noon 
I'd  be  a  wreck,  but  there  on  the  line  would  be 
hanging  the  short  and  simple  flannels  of  the  poor, 
every  last  piece.  And  believe  me,  if  some  bright 
angel  had  dropped  down  bringing  one  of  these 
copper-and-glass  contrivances  which  only  calls 
for  you  to  turn  the  button  and  look  pleasant,  I 
wouldn't  have  worried  about  my  chances  of  get- 
ting through  the  pearly  gates.  Say,  I  could  go 
hoarse  telling  what  a  boon  to  womankind  this 
machine  is." 

"Huh!"  says  he.  "You'll  have  a  chance,  Miss 
Dodge.  Here's  the  booklet  that  tells  all  about  it. 
When  can  you  go  on?" 

"To-morrow,"  says  I.  "I'm  a  quick  study, 
and  all  Inez  has  to  do  is  shed  her  gum." 

Did  you  see  us,  I  wonder?  I  only  ask  because 
it  almost  seemed  as  though  everybody  in  the 
world  had  their  noses  against  the  plate  glass  those 
first  few  days.  From  9  A.M.  until  closing  time  in 
the  afternoon  they  crowded  in  and  out,  most  of 
them  stopping  at  first  for  a  glimpse  over  the 
heads  of  the  others,  and  then  boring  in  madly 
until  they  made  the  front  row.  Half  of  them 
men  and  boys,  too,  that  you  wouldn't  think  would 

122 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

be  vitally  interested  in  how  the  family  wash  was 
done.  But  then,  a  free  show  is  a  free  show,  and 
few  of  us  want  to  miss  anything. 

Also  I  suppose  you  seldom  get  a  more  imposing 
window  demonstrator  than  Miss  Inez  Petersen. 
Few  of  her  weight  and  inches,  anyway;  and  in  her 
freshly  done-up  booth  uniform,  with  her  yellow 
hair  fixed  in  a  new  style  by  her  friend,  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin, and  that  calm  stare  in  her  wide-set  gray 
eyes,  she  looks  like  a  blond  goddess  who'd 
strayed  in  from  the  Milky  Way.  And  you  should 
see  the  haughty,  superior  air  she  gets  on  as  she 
shows  'em  how,  after  the  double  oscillator  has 
soused  the  suds  in  and  around  all  the  clothes,  you 
throw  a  switch  and  let  the  centrifugal  wringer 
do  the  rest.  Say,  no  wonder  the  traffic  cop  had 
to  keep  the  outer  edges  of  the  crowd  moving 
along. 

As  for  me,  I  was  having  the  time  of  my  life. 
I  haven't  had  so  good  an  excuse  to  air  my  vo- 
cabulary since  I  was  born,  and  all  they  had  to 
do  to  set  me  ofF  was  for  some  mildly  interested 
party  to  step  up  and  ask  a  question.  "No, 
madam,"  I'd  say,  for  instance,  "there  is  abso- 
lutely no  need  for  using  injurious  acids  or  doubt- 
ful washing  powders  with  this  wonderful  ma- 
chine. Any  kind  of  plain  laundry  soap  will  do. 
Suction  and  oscillation  removes  every  particle 
of  dirt,  and  does  it  without  the  slightest  harm  to 

123 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

the  flimsiest  fabric.  Throw  in  a  heavy  woolen 
blanket  and  a  dainty  lace  handkerchief.  They 
will  both  come  out  whiter  than  the  driven  snow. 
No  rubbing,  no  scrubbing.  Just  think,  ladies, 
with  this  installed  in  your  laundry,  you  can  do 
the  week's  washing  and  give  a  tea  party  at  the 
same  time.  It  puts  the  sun  in  Sunday  and  leaves 
you  the  mon  in  Monday.  Pays  for  itself  in  six 
months,  and  earns  dividends  all  the  rest  of  the 
year.  If  you  wish  to  join  the  army  of  emanci- 
pated women,  just  make  a  deposit  and  sign  on 
the  dotted  line.  Here's  a  blank,  madam.  Cashier 
at  the  left." 

That  was  only  one  of  my  little  gems.  I  had 
another  on  the  trifling  cost  of  operation,  a  third 
on  simplicity  and  durability,  but  my  high  note  I 
always  struck  when  I  spoke  with  kindly  compas- 
sion of  other  makes,  but  pointed  out  the  seven 
cardinal  virtues  which  this  wonder-working  prod- 
uct of  a  master  mind  alone  had  combined  in  one 
perfect  and  inimitable  whole.  Honest,  I'll  bet  I 
had  the  well-known  remarks  of  Cicero  at  the 
grave  of  his  friend  Marc  Antony  sounding  like 
the  maiden  speech  of  a  boss  plumber  at  his  first 
Rotary  banquet.  After  Mr.  Mackintosh  heard 
it  once  he  hustles  off  to  the  manager's  office,  bor- 
rows a  shorthand  expert,  and  has  her  make  a 
copy  of  it.  I  expect  he'll  be  selling  it  as  a  serial 
to  the  Saturday  Evening  Posty  next  thing  I  know. 

124 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

Anyway,  when  I  struck  him  for  a  ten-dollar  raise 
at  the  end  of  the  third  day,  he  stood  for  it  with 
only  a  few  squirms. 

That  was  the  same  afternoon  I  discovered  this 
repeater  who  was  watching  Inez  so  close  from 
a  corner  of  the  window.  Of  course  there  had 
been  quite  a  lot  of  old  sports  and  young  hicks 
who  had  tried  to  get  gay  with  Inez  through  the 
plate  glass.  One  had  even  come  back  with  a 
cardboard  message  buttoned  under  his  coat,  and 
stood  up  displaying  an  invite  for  her  to  go  out 
to  dinner  with  him  when  she  got  off.  But  trust 
Inez  for  putting  a  crimp  in  any  such  ambitions 
as  that.  She's  a  cold  proposition  with  strangers, 
Inez  is;  just  as  hot-headed  as  a  pink  icicle.  Once 
they  get  the  full  benefit  of  that  placid,  refriger- 
ated stare  of  hers  they  go  off  and  absorb  a  hot 
chocolate  or  two  to  get  their  temperature  back 
to  normal. 

But  this  particular  old  boy  with  the  washed- 
out  gray  eyes,  the  button  nose,  and  the  Baldwin- 
apple  cheeks  don't  seem  to  get  discouraged  so 
easily.  He's  a  sticker.  I  noticed  him  soon  after 
luncheon,  sizing  her  up  over  the  shoulder  of  a 
fat  lady  who  was  holding  up  a  little  boy;  and 
nearly  an  hour  later,  when  I  looks  out  again,  he 
is  still  there. 

He  doesn't  look  like  that  kind,  either.  Surely 
he  wasn't  costumed  for  the  part  of  a  home 

125 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

wrecker.  He's  a  kind  of  a  dried-up  little  shrimp, 
with  a  faded  mustache,  hair  long  in  the  back, 
baggy  trousers,  coat  sleeves  down  to  his  knuckles, 
and  a  sagging  black  necktie  that  showed  a  gold 
collar  button.  I'm  no  finicky  man  critic  either, 
but  a  front  collar  button  display  is  always  enough 
to  settle  'em  with  me.  Somehow  it  seems  almost 
immodest. 

"Say,  Inez,"  says  I,  "who's  your  constant  ad- 
mirer? The  old  boy  at  the  left,  who  needs  to 
take  a  hitch  in  his  necktie  and  a  reef  in  his 
sleeves?" 

"Him?"  says  Inez,  giving  a  careless  glance. 
"I  dunno." 

"Well,  he's  some  window  hound,  I'll  say," 
says  I.  "He's  been  there  more  than  an  hour 
steady." 

"Maybe — maybe  his  wife  make  him  do  the 
wash  at  home,"  suggests  Inez,  indulging  in  one 
of  her  rare  chuckles. 

"If  that's  the  idea,"  says  I,  "he's  having  an 
awful  mental  struggle  about  giving  up  the  price 
of  a  machine.  There!  He's  edging  out.  Per- 
haps he's  coming  in  to  invest." 

But  he  didn't,  so  I  decided  that  he  must  have 
had  a  hunch  we  were  kidding  about  him  and  had 
slipped  away.  Along  toward  five  o'clock,  though, 
I  spotted  him  again,  back  at  the  same  corner. 
And  he  is  taking  a  long,  close  look  at  Inez. 

126 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

"You've  got  him  vamped  good  and  plenty, 
Inez,"  says  I.  "Theda  Bara  couldn't  have  done 
a  more  thorough  job.  But  I  think  he  might  have 
blown  himself  to  a  shave  and  a  hair  cut  while  he 
was  gone." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "Lotta  old  fools  run  loose, 
eh?" 

He  has  sense  enough  to  get  wise  that  we're 
talking  about  him,  though,  and  once  more  he 
edges  out,  so  by  the  time  the  closing  gong  rings 
and  we've  joined  in  the  home-going  rush  I've 
forgotten  all  about  him.  And  after  wasting 
twenty  minutes  trying  to  find  seats  on  a  No.  5 
bus,  we  starts  out  to  walk  home.  Not  that  I 
mind  strolling  up  Fifth  Avenue,  as  a  rule,  but 
when  you've  been  on  your  feet  for  an  eight-hour 
stretch  sitting  would  come  rather  easy. 

It  wasn't  until  we'd  made  the  turn  into  Fifty- 
seventh  Street,  and  were  crossing  Sixth  Avenue, 
that  I  happens  to  look  over  my  shoulder  and 
notices  a  familiar  figure. 

"Will  you  look  what's  trailing  us,  Inez  ? "  says  I. 
"  The  wicked  old  cut-up !  Your  window  hound ! " 

"Same  one,"  says  Inez.  "But  he's  looking  at 
other  things." 

"Yes,  millinery,"  says  I.  "A  minute  ago, 
though,  he  was  sleuthing  after  us." 

"Maybe  he  just  happen  here,"  says  Inez. 
"Come  on;  I'm  hungry." 

127 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Very  well,'*  says  I.  "Might  be  just  a  coinci- 
dence, but  if  it  gets  to  be  a  habit  with  him  he'll 
have  to  talk  to  me." 

I  was  just  suspicious  enough  to  keep  scouting 
over  my  shoulder  now  and  then,  and  before  we 
had  passed  Carnegie  Hall  I  got  a  glimpse  of  him 
hurrying  along  after  us,  stretching  his  neck  as  he 
went. 

"Inez,"  says  I,  "are  you  especially  fond  of  that 
old  boy  with  the  button  nose  and  the  saggy  tie?" 

"Me?"  says  she.    "That  old  boob?" 

"Noble  sentiments!"  says  I.  "Then  duck  into 
this  doorway  and  let's  see  what  happens.  You 
won't  be  much  late  for  dinner.  Anyway,  we 
don't  want  any  more  near  scandals  at  the  board- 
ing house." 

And  a  minute  or  so  later  along  he  comes,  dodg- 
ing through  the  sidewalk  traffic  and  looking  ahead, 
worried.  I  steps  out  bold  and  gives  him  the  sign. 
He  seems  surprised  and  fussed,  but  he  comes  to  a 
halt. 

"Say,  old  sport,"  says  I,  "what's  the  das- 
tardly design?" 

"Hey?"  says  he. 

"Is  this  a  game  of  cross  tag,  or  what?"  I  goes 
on.  "Oh,  you  needn't  rub  your  chin  and  try  to 
look  innocent!  I  watched  you  doing  your  win- 
dow-hound act,  and  you've  been  trailing  us  clear 

from  the  store.    Whaddye  mean  by  it?" 

128 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

"I — I  yust  been  walkin'  along,"  says  he. 

"Yes,  you  have!"  says  I.  "You've  been  fol- 
lowing as  close  on  our  heels  as  you  dared,  and  a 
moment  ago,  when  you  thought  you'd  lost  us, 
you  were  sprinting  ahead  for  all  you  were  worth. 
Ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  too,  at  your 
age.  Say,  do  you  think  you  can  drift  in  here 
from  the  rutabaga  fields  and  pull  stuff  like  that?" 

I  must  say,  though,  that  he's  a  nervy  one.  He 
blinks  a  bit  nervous,  but  he  stands  his  ground. 
"Excoose  me,  young  lady,"  says  he.  "I — I  don't 
mean  nothing." 

"That's  a  poor  alibi,"  says  I.  "And  if  this  is 
just  a  habit  of  yours  I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  it's 
bound  to  pull  down  trouble.  Now  you  tell  me 
what  your  game  is,  or  I'll  call  a  cop." 

That  gives  him  a  jolt,  all  right.  "  Please,"  says 
he,  "I  yust  like  to  know  about  the  other  young 
lady,  the  big  one." 

"Yes,  I  could  guess  that  much,"  says  I.  "They 
generally  do.  But  why  do  you  want  information 
about  her?" 

"She — she  looks  a  lot  like  somebody  I  know 
once,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  does  she?"  says  I.  "Well,  who  was  it  i* 
the  dear  dead  past?  Give  us  the  name." 

"Helma  Olsen,"  says  he,  prompt. 

And  at  that  I  heard  kind  of  a  choky  gurgle 
from  Inez. 

129 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Eh?"  says  I,  turning  to  her.  "What's  th« 
matter?  Anyone  you  were  acquainted  with?" 

"Helma  Olsen,"  repeats  Inez.  "That — that 
maw's  name  when  she  ain't  married." 

"I  knew,  I  knew!"  cackles  the  old  boy.  "You 
must  be  little  Inez." 

"Well,  well!"  says  I.  "We  seem  to  be  getting 
somewhere,  don't  we?  Now,  what  was  this 
Helma  Olsen  to  you,  mister?" 

"Helma  my  sister,"  says  he. 

"Glory  be!"  says  I.  "The  real,  genuine,  sure- 
enough  Uncle  Nels  at  last!  Do  you  get  that, 
Inez?" 

Inez  nods.  But  she  doesn't  display  much  en- 
thusiasm. She  seldom  does,  though.  The  Peter- 
sen  family  evidently  isn't  given  to  impetuous 
clinches. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Nels! "'says  Inez. 

"Hello,  Inez!  "says  he. 

And  they  don't  even  shake  hands. 

"We — we  been  lookin'  for  you,"  adds  Inez. 

"I  should  say  we  had,"  I  puts  in.  "Say,  don't 
you  ever  read  the  papers?" 

"Not  much,"  says  he.  "What  you  want  to 
find  me  for?" 

"For  the  love  of  beans,  listen  to  that!"  says  I. 
"Say,  why  shouldn't  Inez  want  to  look  for  her 
rich  uncle?" 

"Rich!"  says  he.    "Who  tell  you  that?" 
130 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL 

"Why,  that  was  the  general  rumor,"  says  I. 
"You  understood  that  he  was  rich,  didn't  you, 
Inez?" 

She  nods.  "Maw  say  so,  and  paw  say  so," 
gays  she. 

"Foolish  talk!"  says  the  old  boy.    "Me  rich!" 

"He  don't  look  rich  to  me,"  says  Inez,  "and 
we — we  get  late  for  dinner." 

You  can  always  bank  on  Inez  to  come  out  flat- 
footed  with  the  crude  but  accurate  facts  in  the 
case. 

"Peoples  say  a  lot  that  ain't  so,"  mutters  Uncle 
Nels,  indignant.  "Rich!  Huh!" 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  needn't  make  an  affidavit," 
says  I.  "We'll  take  your  word  for  it.  Well,  any- 
thing else?" 

"What  you  do?  Where  you  stay?"  demands 
Uncle  Nels. 

"Say,"  I  breaks  in,  "suppose  you  walk  along 
with  us  and  see.  It's  only  a  few  blocks  from  here, 
and  on  the  way  over  I  can  sketch  out  the  whole 
tale.  You'd  be  all  night  getting  it  from  Inez. 
You  see,  I'm  Trilby  May  Dodge,  and  I've  known 
Inez  ever  since  she  left  home.  In  fact,  I  was 
quitting  my  family  at  the  same  time." 

Uncle  Nels  listens  to  the  details  of  how  we 
worked  in  Coleraine  and  Duluth,  and  finally 
came  to  New  York  to  hunt  for  him.  He  grunts 
now  and  then,  but  that's  all. 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"And  now,  what  about  you?"  says  I.  "Where 
have  you  been  hiding  all  these  years,  and  what 
happened  to  that  pile  you  were  said  to  have  made 
in  the  lumber  business?" 

"Bah!"  says  he.  "I  don't  make  much.  Some- 
body tells  lies.  I  yust  live  around.  This  your 
place,  hey?" 

"This  is  our  mansion,"  says  I.  "It's  Miss 
Wellby's  boarding  house,  in  case  you  should  for- 
get the  number." 

"I  don't  forget,''  says  he.  "I  come  see  Inez 
some  time.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  says  Inez. 

And  almost  before  I  knew  it  the  reunion  was 
all  over.  Somehow,  for  an  event  that  we'd  been 
looking  forward  to  for  so  long,  it  had  turned  out 
to  be  mighty  tame  and  inadequate.  Not  until 
we  were  halfway  up  the  brownstone  steps  did  it 
strike  me  that  it  was  a  singularly  one-sided  affair. 

"See  here,  Inez,"  says  I,  "you  don  t  know  his 
name,  even  now,  do  you?" 

"No,"  says  she.    "He  no  say." 

"Nor  where  he  lives,  eh?"  says  I. 

Inez  hunches  her  shoulders. 

"Something  funny  about  all  that,"  says  I. 
"He's  a  cagey  old  boy,  I'll  say.  And  wouldn't 
it  be  a  joke  on  us  if,  after  all —  Look,  Inez;  you 
chase  in  and  get  your  dinner.  I'll  be  along  after 

awhile/' 

132 


A  WINDOW  HOUND  ON  THE  TRAIL' 

"Where  you  go?"  asks  Inez. 

"I  mean  to  trail  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "He 
hasn't  any  monopoly  of  this  sleuthing  business, 
has  he?  And  I'm  just  as  curious  as  the  next 
one." 

So  off  I  dashed,  picking  up  Uncle  Nels  in  the 
distance  before  he'd  crossed  Broadway.  I  found 
it  was  quite  a  trick  to  keep  a  person  in  sight  dur- 
ing the  rush  hour,  but,  as  he  seemed  to  have  no 
suspicion  that  he  was  being  followed,  there  was 
no  need  for  me  to  stay  very  far  behind.  I  stayed 
with  him  to  the  finish,  too,  and  at  that  it  wasn't 
more  than  forty-five  minutes  before  I  was  back 
at  Miss  Wellby's,  arriving  just  in  time  to  rescue 
my  dessert  from  Inez. 

"Say,"  says  I,  breathless,  "where  do  you  sup- 
pose that  poor  old  uncle  of  yours  hangs  out?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  says  I.  "He  lives  in  one 
of  the  swellest  apartment  hotels  on  Park 
Avenue." 

"Janitor?"  asks  Inez. 

"That  was  my  first  hunch,"  says  I,  "but  it 
was  all  wrong.  I  watched  him  walk  right  in  the 
front  door,  collect  his  mail,  and  take  the  elevator. 
Besides,  the  phone  operator  told  me  who  he  was. 
He's  Mr.  Nelson  Swazey,  and  he  lives  in  a  five- 
room  apartment  on  the  seventh  floor.  Has  a 
valet  and  his  own  private  car  and  chauffeur. 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

What  do  you  know  about  that?  That's  your 
uncle  Nels,  for  you!" 

Inez  finishes  her  rice  pudding,  thoughtful. 
"Then — then  he  is  rich,  hey?"  she  asks. 

"Barring  his  afternoon  street  costume,"  says 
I,  "he  has  all  the  symptoms.  A  bit  odd  in  his 
ways,  I  should  judge,  but  I'll  bet  when  he  signs 
his  name  to  a  check  it  can  be  swapped  for  real 
money  at  the  bank.  Yes,  I  should  call  him  a 
rich  uncle." 

Inez  sighs  sort  of  satisfied  and  shows  her  cheek 
dimples.  "Swell,  eh?"  says  she. 

"That  depends,"  says  I.  "  If  you  merely  want 
him  to  talk  about  it,  it  is.  Beyond  that — well, 
we'll  have  to  wait  and  see.  I  shouldn't  chuck 
the  window  job  just  yet,  though,  if  I  was  you." 


Chapter  VIII 
Trilby  Calls  In  a  Friend 

IVE  Inez  three  or  four  days  to  chew  over 
a  proposition,  and  she'll  generally  come 
through  with  some  appropriate  remark.  She  had 
about  gone  the  limit  when  she  surprises  me  with 
this  one,  just  as  we're  tackling  our  prune-whip 
dessert  at  Miss  Wellby's. 

"Why  Uncle  Nels  no  come  around,  eh?"  she 
asks. 

"How  should  I  know?"  says  I.  "He's  your 
uncle,  not  mine.  What's  your  guess?" 

"Maybe,"  says  Inez,  thoughtfully,  reaching 
for  a  piece  of  layer  cake  I  had  neglected — "may- 
be he  forget  where  we  live." 

"Not  that  old  bird,"  says  I.  "Those  washed- 
out  blue  eyes  of  his  may  not  seem  very  active, 
but  they  take  in  a  lot.  I  was  watching  'em  while 
he  was  with  us  the  other  day  and  they  were  busy 
every  second.  I'll  bet  he  didn't  miss  a  detail 
about  either  of  us,  Inez,  from  your  new  strap 
pumps  to  the  batik  freckle  design  across  my  nose. 
Besides,  I  saw  him  jot  down  the  street  number 
10  135 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

on  the  back  of  an  envelope.     Oh,  he's  got  us 
placed,  all  right!" 

"What's  the  good,  then,  having  rich  uncle?" 
demands  Inez. 

"Say,  ditch  that  Edison  questionnaire  stuff, 
will  you  r "  says  I.  "  I'm  no  ignorant  college  grad. 
But  allow  me  to  suggest,  Inez,  that  you  didn't 
know  he  was  a  plute  uncle  at  the  time.  Not  until 
I'd  trailed  him  up  and  made  a  report.  And  you 
didn't  treat  him  as  one,  either.  So  he  might  have 
been  peeved.  Anyway,  he's  a  queer  old  boy, 
and  there's  no  telling  what  he'll  do,  if  anything. 
Weren't  figuring  on  cashing  in  on  him  so  quick, 
were  you?" 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "But  people  ask  if  I 
find  him  yet?"  says  she. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "The  general  impression 
among  the  boarders,  since  that  squad  of  false 
alarms  showed  up,  seems  to  be  that  we  invented 
this  rich-uncle  tale  just  to  make  ourselves 
popular." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  staring  at  me. 

"They  think  we  faked  an  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I. 
"It's  natural  enough.  You'd  talked  a  lot  about 
him,  and  then  all  that  is  printed  in  the  papers, 
and  still  no  uncle  appears.  Here  comes  that 
young  reporter  person,  now — Barry  Platt,  who 
gave  you  the  free  advertising.  Let's  see  if  he 
springs  it." 

136 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

Oh  yes,  he  did.  All  the  opening  I  gave  him 
as  he  drifted  by  was  a  roll  of  the  eyes,  and  he 
promptly  turns  to  camp  down  in  an  empty  chair 
at  our  table. 

"Well,  how's  the  heiress  getting  along  with  her 
uncle  hunt?"  he  asks. 

"Tell  him,  Trilby  May,"  urges  Inez. 

"Yes,  do,"  says  he. 

"Wouldn't  I  be  the  simp  if  I  did?"  says  I. 
"Say,  Barry  boy,  do  I  look  like  a  human  bulletin 
board?  And  you  know  we  haven't  signed  any 
contract  to  let  you  write  us  up  in  your  paper 
once  a  week.  So  check  out,  old  dear,  check  out!" 

He's  no  hardened  wretch,  though,  even  if  he  is 
a  bit  careless  about  what  he  knocks  off  on  his 
typewriter.  I  might  have  guessed  that  by  the 
slick  light  hair  and  the  mild  eyes.  He  has  a 
soothing,  confidential  way  of  talking  to  you,  too. 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  he.  "But  when  a  fellow  is 
holding  on  to  his  job  with  his  eyelids  he's  liable  to 
grab  anything.  You  see,  I  was  trying  to  make 
good  with  the  city  editor,  and  that  lost-uncle 
story  of  yours  looked  like  sure  fire  hokum.  It 
was,  too.  I  was  due  to  be  let  out  last  pay  day, 
and  they  let  me  ride  on  the  strength  of  it.  That 
and  the  follow-up  story  about  the  nine  volunteer 
uncles  got  me  a  good  mark.  Of  course,  it  did 
put  you  in  a  hole  for  a  while  there,  but  you  cer- 
tainly handled  the  thing  well." 

137 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY' 

"Think  so?"  says  I. 

"Brilliant  dome  work,  I  call  it,"  says  Barry. 
"That's  what  I  told  the  other  boys,  and  you  saw 
what  they  said?" 

"Oh  yes,"  says  I.  "Especially  that  line  about 
my  having  Portia  looking  like  a  tongue-tied  old 
maid.  Do  you  know,  Barry,  I'd  just  as  soon  omit 
being  written  up  like  that  again?" 

"No  fear,"  says  he.  "Not  unless  you  break 
out  in  an  entirely  new  spot.  I  shot  the  Uncle 
Nels  yarn  for  all  it  was  worth.  It  would  be  old 
stuff  now,  and  I  was  only  asking  about  him — 
well,  just  to  make  talk.  You  thought  him  up, 
I  suppose?" 

"Thought  who  up?"  I  demands. 

"Why,  the  rich  uncle,"  says  Barry. 

"Thanks  for  the  left-hander,"  says  I,  "but  I 
did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  haven't  that  sort  of 
mind.  Miss  Petersen's  Uncle  Nels  is  just  as 
much  of  a  live  one  as  you  are." 

"Really?"  says  he.  "But — but  you  haven't 
got  track  of  him,  have  you?" 

"Not  for  publication,  understand,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  certainly!"  says  Barry. 

"Then,"  says  I,  "Inez  may  let  off  some  of  the 
indignation  she  has  bottled  up.  Your  cue,  Inez. 
Tell  him  about  Uncle  Nels." 

"He  did  come,  so  there!"  says  Inez,  lifting  that 
Goddess  of  Liberty  chin  of  hers.  "Last  Friday." 

138 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

"You  don't  say!"  says  Barry.  "Why,  I  didn't 
hear  about  it." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  says  I.  "He  picked  us 
up  on  the  street  and  left  us  at  the  front  steps. 
It  wasn't  what  you  printed  that  brought  him, 
either.  Never  saw  any  of  those  pieces.  He  just 
spotted  Inez  in  her  window  demonstration  act, 
and  she  looked  so  much  like  his  sister  that 
he  took  a  chance.  He's  the  real  thing.  Rich, 
too." 

"Perfectly  bully,  eh?"  says  Barry. 

"Listens  so,  doesn't  it?"  says  I.  "But  to  be 
strictly  candid,  Barry,  we're  a  bit  doubtful  that 
it  means  much.  Uncle  Nels  has  known  where 
his  favorite  niece  lives  for  nearly  a  week,  and  up 
to  date  he  hasn't  worn  any  holes  in  the  front-door 
mat.  Not  even  a  ring  on  the  phone  from  him. 
More  than  that,  he's  holding  out  on  us.  Uh-huh! 
Didn't  even  leave  his  name  and  number,  and  if 
I  hadn't  done  a  little  quick  sleuthing  he'd  have 
been  just  as  much  lost  as  before." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  says  Barry.  "Followed  him,  did 
you?  That  was  clever.  What  does  he  look 
like?" 

"That's  the  funny  part,"  says  I.  "He  gets 
himself  up  like  he'd  just  blown  in  from  Gopher 
Prairie.  Regular  rube  outfit.  If  it's  a  disguise, 
he's  £.n  artist  at  that  sort  of  thing;  and  if  it  isn't, 
why  should  he  wear  a  hick  regalia  when  he  can 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

afford  to  live  in  a  Park  Avenue  apartment  house, 
where  the  door  man  looks  like  a  rear  admiral 
dressed  up  to  review  the  fleet?  He's  got  me 
guessing,  Uncle  Nels  has." 

"We — we  might  ask  him  'round,  eh?"  suggests 
Inez. 

"And  give  away  how  I  shadowed  him?"  says 
I.  "That  would  get  him  suspicious  of  our 
motives.  He'd  be  sure,  then,  that  you  had  the 
net  out  for  him.  No,  Inez,  that's  the  last  thing 
I  should  advise.  Of  course,  I  never  had  a  rich 
uncle,  myself;  but  if  one  should  be  wished  on 
me  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  rush  him  off  his  feet." 

"Quite  right,"  says  Barry.  "It's  his  move 
now." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  pouty. 

"Indicating,"  says  I  to  Barry,  "general  dis- 
sent on  the  part  of  Miss  Petersen." 

He  turns  for  a  close  look  at  her.  I  could  have 
told  him  that  was  a  risky  thing  to  do,  for  some- 
how it's  always  the  little  fellows  who  fall  hardest 
for  Inez.  Barry  Platt  doesn't  seem  to  be  blond 
proof.  He  stares  and  rubs  his  smooth  chin. 

"Well,  who  knows?"  says  he.  "We  may  be 
wrong  at  that.  I  might  be  able  to  dope  some- 
thing out.  Let's  adjourn  to  the  parlor." 

"I  gotta  go  get  ready,"  says  Inez.  "Picture 
show." 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "I  11  just  stay  and  see  if 
140 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

Barry  has  anything  on  his  mind  worth  while, 
and  you  may  bring  down  my  hat." 

"Stunning  eyes,  hasn't  she?"  says  Barry,  as 
we  park  ourselves  on  the  old  plush  sofa. 

"Rather  placid,"  says  I. 

"Like  a  calm  sea  under  a  gray  sky,"  he  goes  on. 

"They're  common  enough  in  Minnesota,"  says 
I,  "where  the  Petersens  and  Olsens  are  thick." 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  says  he.  "Wonderful  eyes, 
I  call  them.  And  with  that  wheat-colored  hair 
and  her  rose-leaf  complexion — " 

"There's  such  a  lot  of  complexion,  too,"  I 
breaks  in.  "But  keep  on.  I'm  simply  crazy 
about  hearing  you  rave  over  Inez's  looks.  So 
different  from  mine,  eh?" 

"Oh,  well!"  says  Barry,  pinking  up  in  the  ears 
a  little.  "You're  a  different  type,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "I  suppose  you  don't  care  so 
much  for  gooseberry-green  eyes?  But  don't  they 
remind  you  of  something?  Ever  see  an  old  brick 
pit  half  full  of  water?" 

He  shakes  his  head,  protesting.  "No,"  says 
he,  "but  I've  seen  a  piece  of  Chinese  jade  with 
the  sun  shining  through,  and  a  greenish  opal  that 
seemed  to  have  a  young  bonfire  inside  of  it." 

"Nice  boy!"  says  I.  "And  to  think  that  he's 
wasting  an  imagination  like  that  on  mere  news- 
paper work." 

Barry  Platt  has  a  cute  trick  of  dropping  his 
141 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

chin  and  registering  modesty.  "If  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so,  Trilby  May,"  says  he,  "I'm 
getting  to  be  rather  partial  to  both  of  you." 

"This  is  so  abrupt,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Still,  if 
you  think  Miss  Wellby  wouldn't  object  to  a  little 
hand-holding  in  her  front  parlor — " 

"Now  you're  kidding  me,"  says  he.  "Not  that 
I'm  sensitive,  but  what  I  want  to  say  is  that  I'm 
more  or  less  grateful  for  the  good  turn  you  did 
me.  That  uncle  story,  you  know.  It  was  a  job 
saver.  And  if  there  is  any  little  thing  I  can  do 
in  return,  I  hope  you'll  let  me  know." 

"Fair  enough,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Right  now 
I  don't  figure  how  you  can  be  especially  useful, 
but  later  on  I  may  give  you  a  call.  Ah!  The 
fair  Inez  comes  toting  my  one  and  only  lid. 
Bong  swar,  Barrie.  Don't  dream  of  calm  brick- 
yard pools  under  gray-green  skies  or  anything 
like  that.  We're  not  twins,  remember." 

And  we  swapped  friendly  smiles.  That's  all. 
For  as  a  vamp  I'm  sadly  in  need  of  practice.  Oh, 
I  can  deal  out  a  line  of  chatter  that  keeps  'em 
from  nodding  in  their  chairs;  but  five  minutes 
afterward,  as  they  sit  in  the  gloaming,  gazing  up 
into  the  cigarette  smoke,  they  don't  see  any 
lovely  picture.  If  they  do  it  hasn't  carroty-red 
hair  or  my  long  flat  lines.  Nope.  At  least,  t've 
never  heard  any  rumors  to  that  effect. 

"How  does  he  strike  you,  Inez?"  I  asks,  as 
142 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

we  make  for  Broadway  and  the  glittering  lights. 
"Barry  boy,  I  mean." 

"Little  feller,"  says  Inez. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  says  I.  "He  doesn't  stack  up 
with  Bill  Hart  or  a  lot  of  your  full-dress-suit 
heroes  of  the  screen;  but  he  isn't  exactly  poison- 
ous, is  he?" 

All  I  can  get  out  of  Inez,  though,  is  a  shoulder 
shrug.  She  simply  can't  see  'em  unless  they're 
at  least  six  feet  high  or  have  a  dark,  cropped 
mustache.  So  why  waste  time  telling  her  all 
the  nice  things  he'd  said  about  her  eyes,  and 
so  on? 

I  wasn't  planning  on  any  campaign  to  work 
Barry  in,  either.  Honest.  What  happened  dur- 
ing the  next  few  days  just  came  naturally.  It 
opened  with  our  running  across  Uncle  Nels  again 
the  next  night.  He  was  waiting  in  our  block  as 
we  came  home  from  the  store.  I  caught  sight  of 
the  faded,  ragged  mustache,  and  the  Baldwin- 
apple  cheeks,  ten  doors  off,  and  nudged  Inez. 

"Look  who's  here  again,"  says  I. 

"Uncle  Nels!"  says  she,  fluttery. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "but  don't  get  emotional  about 
it.  Greet  him  casual  and  offhand,  like  you'd  seen 
him  every  day  for  a  year.  And  leave  the  rest  to 
me.  Hello!  Dropped  around,  did  you?  Well, 
we're  still  doing  the  window  trick,  you  see." 

Uncle  Nels  nods  to  both  of  us  and  gives  us  the 
H3 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

inventory  size-up.  "You — you  get  good  pay  for 
that?"  he  asks. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  make  us  round-shouldered 
carrying  it  home  Saturday  nights,"  says  I,  "but 
it's  enough  to  pacify  the  landlady." 

He  nods  approving.  "Girls  should  work,"  says 
he.  "They  don't  get  into  mischief  when  they 
work." 

"Then  Inez  and  I  are  as  safe  as  if  we  were 
locked  in  a  convent,"  says  I. 

"You  get  good  meals  here?"  he  demands,  nod- 
ding at  Miss  Wellby's  front  door. 

"Oh,  so-so,"  says  I.  "Not  much  danger  of 
over-eating  or  of  contracting  gout,  but  if  you're 
fond  of  goulash  and  liver  pudding,  one  can  get 
along." 

Uncle  Nels  hesitates  a  minute,  and  then  he 
comes  out  with  a  draggy  invite.  "You — you  like 
to  go  to  restaurant  with  me  for — for  supper?" 
says  he.  "I  saw  a  place  by  the  corner." 

I'd  seen  it,  too — six  courses  for  seventy-five 
cents,  glass-topped  tables,  and  paper  napkins. 
Also  I'd  noted  the  sloppy  men  waiters  and  the 
class  of  people  who  patronized  the  joint.  So  I 
didn't  yearn  for  that  kind  of  a  blow.  But  just 
as  I  was  framing  up  an  alibi  I  got  this  sudden 
hunch. 

"Couldn't  think  of  sponging  on  you,  Uncle 
Nels,"  says  I.  "Not  just  because  you're  a  rela- 

144 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

tion  of  Inez.  What's  the  matter  with  your  join- 
ing us  here  as  our  guest  ?  Let's  see,  this  is  boiled- 
beef-and-spinach  night.  How  about  it?" 

"You — you  want  me?"  he  asks,  feeling  the 
stubble  on  his  face.  "I — I  don't  get  shaved 
to-day." 

"Oh,  well,  call  it  to-morrow  night,"  says  I, 
"and  then  we'll  all  have  time  to  fix  up.  Here 
comes  a  young  friend  of  ours — Mr.  Barry  Platt. 
I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  sit  in,  too,  and  we'll 
have  a  regular  party  of  it.  I  say,  Barry!  Come 
and  meet  Miss  Petersen's  Uncle  Nels,  the  one 
you've  heard  about." 

"So  pleased!"  says  Barry.  "May  I  ask  the 
name  again?" 

Uncle  Nels  scrapes  his  right  foot  nervous,  but 
Barry  is  still  gripping  him  by  the  hand  and  fav- 
oring him  with  one  of  his  kiddish  smiles,  so  he 
has  to  come  across.  "Swazey,"  says  he,  "Nelson 
Swazey,"  sounding  the  w  as  in  vinegar. 

"We're  staging  a  little  four-handed  dinner 
party  for  to-morrow  night,  Barry,"  says  I,  "and 
we're  counting  you  in.  Is  it  all  right?" 

"Perfectly,"  says  Barry.  "In  honor  of  Uncle 
Nels,  eh?  I'll  be  there.  In  fact,  I'll  do  better 
than  that.  I'll  stop  for  you,  Mr.  Swazey,  and 
bring  you  around.  Let's  see,  your  number  is — 

And  before  Uncle  Nels  can  sidestep  he  has 
made  him  call  it. 

MS 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I — I  gotta  go  now,"  says  Uncle  Nels. 

"Remember,"  sings  out  Barry,  cordial. 
"About  six-thirty  to-morrow  night." 

There's  nothing  sluggish  about  Barry  Platt's 
mental  processes.  I  expect  his  newspaper  work 
keeps  him  in  high  gear,  but  he  surely  did  extract 
all  the  personal  statistics  from  Uncle  Nels  smooth 
and  easy.  I  could  see  that  he  was  going  to  be  a 
great  help  at  the  reunion. 

"If  I  don't  collect  him  he  may  renig,"  explains 
Barry.  "Looks  like  a  shifty  old  boy.  Beg  par- 
don, Miss  Inez." 

"I  wish  he  get  haircut,"  says  Inez. 

"He  could  stand  a  little  barbering,"  admits 
8arry. 

"And  a  card  to  a  pressing  club  might  give  him 
*  hint  that  they're  not  wearing  'em  baggy  this 
season,"  I  puts  in.  "If  we're  going  to  exhibit  a 
rich  uncle,  why  not  have  one  that  looks  the 
part?" 

"Say,  that's  worth  thinking  over,"  says  Barry. 
"Leave  it  to  me." 

He's  a  great  little  plotter,  Barry.  Inside  of 
an  hour  he  comes  hunting  us  up  with  a  whole 
scenario  developed. 

"Look,  Trilby  May,"  says  he,  enthusiastic. 
"Isn't  the  idea  to  give  Uncle  Nels  a  good  time?" 

"Absolutely,"  says  I. 

"Then  why  not  make  it  a  big  night?"  he  goes 
146 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

on.  "Why  be  boarding-house  pikers?  The  old 
chap  looks  as  though  he'd  never  seen  much  life. 
Let's  give  him  a  peek.  I'll  go  fifty-fifty  on  it. 
How  about  a  cabaret  roof  dinner?" 

"I'm  game,"  says  I,  "but  I  can't  see  Uncle 
Nels  in  a  crowd  like  that.  Wouldn't  he  look  like 
he'd  been  planted  as  part  of  a  vaudeville  act?" 

"Not  after  I  get  through  fixing  him  up,"  says 
Barry. 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "And  what  about  us?  How 
far  do  you  want  us  to  go  in  the  costume  line  ? " 

"The  limit,"  says  Barry. 

"Rash  youth!"  says  I.  "But  then,  I  suppose 
you  couldn't  guess  just  how  spiffy  we  can  array 
ourselves  if  we  take  the  pick  of  our  wardrobe." 

"The  spiffier  the  better,"  says  Barry.  "My 
motto  is,  nothing's  too  good  for  a  rich  uncle. 
And  believe  me,  he's  going  to  look  it.  You  see, 
my  room  mate's  away  for  the  week  end,  and  he's 
a  fancy  dresser.  Anyway,  we're  all  set." 

So  it's  lucky  we'd  planned  this  for  Saturday, 
when  we  had  that  extra  hour.  And  maybe  you 
remember  the  two  evening  dresses  we  won  when 
we  got  mixed  up  with  the  Junius  Stokeses  ?  Well, 
by  five-thirty  we  were  home  and  laying  them  out. 
Inez  had  spent  her  lunch  hour  and  nearly  two 
whole  dollars  having  her  hair  done,  and  with  the 
few  little  touches  I  was  able  to  add  with  an  eye- 
brow pencil  and  a  rabbit's  foot,  I  had  her  looking 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

dazzling  enough  to  crash  in  anywhere  in  the 
lobster  district.  Took  me  all  of  half  an  hour, 
though,  to  ease  her  into  that  black-net  affair, 
after  which  I  had  her  pin  me  into  the  pink  one. 

"Would  anybody  guess,  Inez,"  says  I,  "that 
we  demonstrated  electric  washers  for  our  daily 
bread?  I  ask  you,  now?'* 

"We  look  swell,  eh?"  says  she,  trying  to  get  a 
full-length  view  in  the  bureau  mirror.  "Maybe 
Uncle  Nels  gets  surprised." 

"If  he  doesn't,"  says  I,  "he's  a  human  shock 
absorber.  Anyway,  the  thought  should  come 
home  to  him  that  he  has  a  niece  who  would  be 
a  credit  to  him  if  he  ever  decided  to  loosen  up 
his  grip  on  the  check  book  for  her  benefit." 

"Oh!"  says  Inez,  her  eyes  widening.  "That's 
why  we  do  this,  hey?" 

"You  didn't  think  it  was  all  a  case  of  family 
affection,  did  you?"  says  I.  "You  know,  Inez, 
I  suspect  that  your  dear  uncle  is  one  of  these  nice 
old  boys  who  would  squeeze  a  nickel  until  the 
buffalo  dripped  blood.  But  he  may  have  his  soft 
side.  That's  Barry's  notion,  too,  and  he's  a 
bright  youth  in  some  ways.  Also,  he's  a  plunger. 
But  I  do  hope  he  succeeds  in  making  Uncle  Nels 
look  less  like  a  county  commissioner  who's  just 
sold  his  standing  timber.  Not  that  I'm  too  proud 
to  be  seen  with  him  at  a  roof  garden,  but  I'd 
hate  to  divert  all  the  attention  from  the  cabaret 

148 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

show.  Eh?  Was  that  a  knock  at  the  door?  Oh 
yes,  Ruby!  Tell  the  gentlemen  we'll  be  right 
down." 

And  I'll  never  doubt  Barry  Platt's  skill  as  an 
uncle  persuader  again.  For  there,  on  the  edge  of 
the  plush  sofa  in  the  parlor,  sits  Uncle  Neis  in  full 
evening  regalia.  True,  he  wears  it  somewhat  as 
a  woodshed  might  a  tile  roof,  holding  his  neck 
away  from  the  collar  points  like  he  was  afraid  of 
puncturing  his  windpipe,  and  with  his  watery 
blue  eyes  set  in  an  agonized  stare.  But  aside 
from  that  and  the  bulge  in  his  pleated  shirt 
bosom  and  the  way  his  feet  are  toed  in,  he's  a 
work  of  art. 

"  How  did  you  ever  do  it  ? "  I  whispers  to  Barry, 
after  the  fond  greetings  are  over. 

"Took  me  most  of  the  afternoon,"  says  Barry, 
"and  I  had  to  borrow  about  all  that  my  room 
mate  had  in  his  trunk.  The  old  boy  was  inclined 
to  be  balky  at  first,  but  when  I  explained  what 
classy  dressers  you  and  Inez  were  when  you 
dined  out,  he  finally  gave  in.  And  say,  I  didn't 
stretch  the  truth  any,  at  that.  My,  but  you  two 
look  stunning!  Especially  Inez.  Why,  she's  a 
dream!" 

"How  sweet  of  you  to  put  it  that  way,"  says 
I.  "Oh,  man!  Even  Uncle  Nels.  See,  she's  got 
him  in  a  trance  so  soon." 

It's  a  fact.  He's  just  sitting  there  gawping  at 
149 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

her,  as  fascinated  as  a  rabbit  watching  a  boa- 
constrictor. 

"I  believe  it's  working,"  I  says  to  Barry  on  the 
side. 

"Like  a  charm,"  says  he.  "But  bring  him  out 
of  it.  I've  got  a  taxi  waiting,  and  they'll  hold  the 
table  only  until  seven-thirty." 

I  don't  know  which  gave  a  better  imitation  of  a 
wax  dummy — Uncle  Nels  in  his  first  dress  suit,  or 
Inez  making  her  debut  at  a  roof  garden.  We 
couldn't  get  a  syllable  out  of  either  of  'em.  The 
only  life-like  motions  they  made  was  when  food 
was  put  before  them.  They  didn't  miss  any  of 
that.  I'll  say  they  didn't.  Of  course,  I  rather 
expected  Inez  to  nourish  herself  generously. 
That's  her  long  suit,  and  she  gallops  jauntily 
through  the  whole  program,  from  fruit  cocktail 
to  cafe  parfait,  with  no  skips  and  nothing  left 
to  scrape  from  the  plates. 

And  Uncle  Nels  is  right  with  her.  How  a 
dried-up  little  old  shrimp  like  that  could  hold  so 
much  without  even  easing  off  a  vest  button,  is  a 
mystery  we  won't  dwell  on.  But  he  made  the 
grade  just  as  easy  as  though  he  was  built  to  wear 
a  forty  fat  instead  of  a  thirty-four  slim.  And 
after  he's  lighted  up  a  long  black  cigar  that  Barry 
slips  him  when  the  demi-tasses  were  served,  he 
consents  to  look  at  what's  going  on  in  the  dancing 
space. 

150 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

Aren't  they  the  bold  pieces,  some  of  those 
cabaret  chorus  Janes?  And  I  suppose  they're 
sure  of  getting  a  laugh  when  they  pick  out  tall- 
stick  delegates  like  Uncle  Nels  to  get  fresh  with. 
It  was  bad  enough  when  one  henna-haired  vamp 
costumed  chiefly  in  purple  tulle,  danced  up  and 
tickled  him  under  the  chin  with  her  feather  fan, 
but  when  she  finished  her  act  by  bouncing  on  his 
lap  and  giving  him  a  bear  hug  I  looked  for  him 
to  crawl  right  under  the  table.  He  didn't,  though. 
He  just  got  on  a  simple  smirk  and  acted  as 
though  some  one  had  thrown  a  squash  pie  at 
him. 

"Don't  you  think,  Barry,"  says  I,  "that  it's 
high  time  we  took  Uncle  Nels  home?'5 

"Decidedly,"  says  Barry.  "Just  a  moment, 
until  I  settle  up." 

And  when  the  waiter  produced  what  looked  like 
a  taxi  bill  for  a  whole  township  Uncle  Nels  made 
his  first  remark.  "How — how  much  it  cost,  all 
this?"  he  asks. 

Barry  lets  him  have  a  peeK  at  the  staggering 
total. 

"Huh!"  says  Uncle  Nels,  hunching  his  shoul- 
ders. "We  better  go." 

During  the  ride  uptown  he  seemed  thoughtful, 
and  when  we  dropped  him   at  his  number  he 
don't  waste  any  breath  in  saying  what  a  nice 
time  he's  had.    Nothing  like  that. 
11  151 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"What  I  do  with  these?"  he  asks  Barry,  indi- 
cating the  evening  clothes. 

"Oh,  I'll  drop  around  and  get  'em  to-morrow 
sometime,"  says  Barry. 

"Well!"  says  I,  as  we  rolls  on.  "His  gratitude 
is  never  going  to  make  him  hoarse,  is  it  ? " 

"Never  mind,"  says  Barry,  cheerful.  "He's  a 
deep  thinker,  I'll  bet." 

And  not  until  about  2  P.M.  Sunday  afternoon 
did  Barry  know  how  right  he  was.  It  was  half 
an  hour  after  that  when  he  came  back  to  Miss 
Wellby's  with  the  suitcase  and  borrowed  clothes. 

"How  did  you  find  Uncle  Nels  to-day?"  I 
asked  him. 

Barry  springs  that  crooked  smile  of  his,  and 
there's  a  queer  look  in  his  eyes.  "I  didn't  find 
him  at  all,"  says  he,  "  and  I  don't  think  you  will 
again,  right  away." 

"What?"  says  I.    "You  don't  mean  that  he— 

"Vanished,"  says  Barry.  "Moved  out  early 
this  morning  and  left  no  address." 

"Nor  any  word?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Barry,  holding  out  an  envelope. 
"This." 

Inside  was  a  single  sheet  of  paper,  with  one  line 
scribbled  in  lead  pencil.  I  read  it  aloud: 

"'A  niece  like  that  would  be  too  expensive. 
— Uncle  Nels.'  Gosh!"  says  I. 

"Tough  luck!"  says  Barry.  "And  we  blew  in 
152 


TRILBY  CALLS  IN  A  FRIEND 

twenty-four-fifty  on  that  old  tightwad!  But  it 
looked  like  a  good  hunch  to  me." 

"Yes,  so  you  said  at  the  time,"  says  I.  "And 
I  agreed  with  you.  I'm  afraid,  though,  Barry, 
that  as  uncle  connoisseurs  we're  good  judges  of 
cheese.  Twenty-four-fifty!  That's  over  eight 
apiece  we  spent  to  lose  what  we've  been  so  long 
finding.  I  don't  know  how  I'm  ever  going  to 
break  the  sad  news  to  Inez." 

"She's  that  fond  of  him,  is  she?"  asks  Barry. 

"She's  awfully  fond  of  eight  dollars,"  says  I. 


Chapter  IX 
Inez  Knocks  'Em  for  a  Gool 

news,    Inez!"    says    I.      "Give    a 


guess. 

It's  the  poorest  thing  Inez  does,  trying  to  un- 
screw the  inscrutable,  but  after  a  deep  mental 
effort  that  almost  breaks  the  rhythm  of  her  gum 
chewing,  she  comes  across  with  this  : 

"We  —  we  have  ice  cream  for  dessert  to- 
night?" 

"What  a  vivid,  not  to  say  gastric,  imagina- 
tion you  have,  Inez!"  says  I.  "Well,  ice  cream 
may  be  an  item,  but  it  doesn't  tell  the  whole 
story.  A  perfectly  nice  young  man  is  going  to 
take  us  down  to  Greenwich  Village  for  dinner, 
and  a  regular  sightseeing  spree." 

"Who?"  demands  Inez. 

"Barry  Platt,"  says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez. 

"Such  scorn!"  says  I.  "But  have  a  heart, 
Inez.  He  means  well,  you  know,  even  if  he  did 
rather  bug  things  with  your  Uncle  Nels.  But 
that  roof-garden  splurge  of  ours  wasn't  all  Barry's 

154 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

fault.  It  looked  like  a  good  play  to  me  at  the 
time,  and  how  were  we  to  know  that  this  rich 
relation  of  yours  was  a  trick  uncle?  Besides,  I 
expect  this  is  Barry's  way  of  making  good  for 
that  break.  And  it  ought  to  be  sport." 

"Is  it  out  by  Jersey,  this  village?"  asks  Inez. 

"Distinctly  not,"  says  I.  "Listen,  Inez: 
Greenwich  Village  isn't  out  anywhere.  It's  the 
zippiest,  wildest,  wickedest  part  of  New  York, 
full  of  artists  and  poets  and  soul  mates  and  short- 
haired  girls  and  long-haired  men.  It's  supposed 
to  be  the  most  picturesque  and  shocking  spot  west 
of  Paris.  Honest,  haven't  you  heard  about  it?'* 

Inez  hadn't.  That  is,  if  she  had,  the  informa- 
tion hadn't  penetrated. 

"Then  it's  time  you  knew  all  about  it,"  says  I. 
"I've  been  crazy  to  see  it,  and  I  was  thrilled  to 
the  bone  when  Barry  asked  me  to-day  if  he 
couldn't  take  us  down  and  show  us  around.  Any- 
way, we  need  a  little  cheering  up." 

"Because  I  lose  Uncle  Nels  again?"  asks  Inez. 

"  Partly,"  says  I.  "  Makes  you  about  ninety  per 
cent  orphan,  doesn't  it?  And  then  the  fact  that 
our  engagement  as  window  demonstrators  is  going 
to  peter  out  to-morrow  is  a  bit  discouraging.  I 
had  rather  banked  on  our  being  sent  to  some 
other  store,  but  it  seems  that  summer  is  a  closed 
season  for  electric  washers,  and  we  must  turn  our 
talents  toward  some  other  line.  You'll  like  seeing 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Greenwich  Village,  I  think.  It's  different  from 
any  part  of  town  we've  been  in  as  yet,  I  under- 
stand. Anyway,  a  free  dinner  is  a  free  dinner." 
"Yes-s-s?"  says  Inez.  "All  right." 
When  she  comes  to  checking  enthusiasm  her 
brakes  hold  well.  If  I  had  asked  her  to  step  out 
and  watch  the  earthquake  it  would  have  been 
about  the  same,  for  Inez  never  forgets  that  she 
was  born  near  Tamarack,  Minnesota,  and  that 
she's  Swede  on  both  sides.  And  when  you  try  to 
spring  anything  new  on  her  she'll  drop  into  that 
poiseful  mood  that  makes  a  cement  doorstep-lion 
seem  frisky. 

But  Barry  Platt,  as  ne  tows  us  out  to  the  L 
station  and  gets  us  settled  opposite  him  in  a 
cross  seat  on  a  Sixth  Avenue  local,  doesn't  seem 
to  notice  any  unusual  reserve.  No,  Barry  is  at 
the  stage  when  he's  perfectly  satisfied  if  he  can 
sit  and  gaze  into  those  placid  gray  eyes  and  watch 
the  pink-and-white  flush  play  around  Inez's 
cheek  dimples.  All  the  way  down  he  talked  to 
Inez,  and  I  did  the  answering,  but  I'll  bet  he  gave 
her  credit  for  most  of  the  repartee. 

"Tell  me,  Barry,"  says  I,  "where  do  we  eat?" 

"That  depends,"  says  Barry.    "Do  you  insist 

on  real  food,  or  had  you  rather  take  a  chance  on 

an  odd  joint  where  the  grub  may  be  poor  but  the 

stage  setting  and  the  people  rather  interesting?" 

"Oh,  let's  have  the  weird  stuff  and  risk  the 

156 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

nourishment,"  says  I.  "How  about  going  to  one 
of  those  places  with  queer  names?  What  arc 
some  of  them?" 

"You  mean  the  'Pig  and  Whistle,'  'Three  Steps 
Down/  'Sonia's,'  and  'The  Pirates'  Den?'"  he 
asks.  "Those  are  all  queer  enough,  so  far  as  the 
names  go,  but  they're  rather  well  known.  Full  of 
teachers  from  the  summer  schools,  and  Jersey 
commuters,  and  out-of-town  buyers.  I've  heard 
of  one  or  two  new  joints  that  might  be  worth 
trying.  You  see,  the  real  Villagers  shift  around 
from  place  to  place,  and  you  never  can  tell,  unless 
you  live  down  there,  just  where  they're  apt  to  be. 
So  we'll  scout  around  a  bit." 

That's  what  we  did.  It's  a  messy  section,  this 
Greenwich  Village,  and  picturesque  in  spots. 
Mostly  the  narrow,  crooked  streets,  are  full  of 
boys  playing  tip-cat  and  handball,  and  the  bulk 
of  the  buildings  are  just  common  tenement  houses 
overrunning  with  a  mixed  lot  of  foreigners  who 
swarm  on  the  sidewalks  and  lean  from  windows 
and  perch  on  iron  fire  escapes.  But  scattered 
here  and  there  about  the  district  are  old  houses 
that  have  been  rebuilt  into  studio  apartments, 
with  dusty-looking  flower  boxes  and  discouraged 
privet  and  cedars  in  tubs.  Also,  about  every 
fourth  basement  has  been  made  into  an  eating 
place. 

The  general  formula  for  creating  a  cafe  out  of 
157 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

a  cellar  seems  to  be  to  smear  the  whole  front 
with  some  vivid  color,  like  Greek  blue,  or  willow 
green,  or  turkey  red,  hang  odd  draperies  in  the 
window,  and  stick  out  a  crude  sign  lettered  with 
some  striking  name,  like  "The  Purple  Pup,"  or 
"Stella's  Kitchen." 

Only  one  of  'em  got  a  rise  out  of  Inez,  and  this 
was  a  place  where  the  entrance  was  guarded  by 
a  fierce-looking  gent  got  up  in  a  black  wig,  a 
bandanna  around  his  head,  big  gold  hoops  in  his 
ears,  and  a  rusty  cutlass  dangling  from  his  belt. 

"Look!"  whispers  Inez,  husky. 

"Yes,"  says  Barry.  "'The  Pirates'  Den'  and 
across  the  street  is  'Mother  Carey's,'  where  they 
had  some  wild  doings  last  winter.  But  there's 
an  alley  around  the  corner  where  they  say — Oh, 
here  it  is!  'The  Mad  Mullah.'  Hasn't  been 
running  long,  but  I've  heard  it's  rather  unique. 
Let's  give  it  a  try." 

"I — I  no  like,"  says  Inez,  grabbing  me  panicky 
by  the  hand  and  staring  suspicious  down  this 
narrow,  dark  hole,  littered  with  ash  cans. 

"Oh,  come  along,"  says  I.  "Barry  will  pro- 
tect us.  Won't  you,  Barry  boy?" 

"It's  perfectly  all  right,"  says  Barry.  "See, 
there's  a  red  light  at  the  far  end.  That's  where 
we  go  in,  and  after  we  pass  the  Mad  Mullah  we're 
safe.  Let's  see,  I  believe  you're  expected  to 
hammer  three  times  on  the  door." 

158 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

Barry  had  just  finished  pounding  with  his  fist 
when  the  door  was  jerked  open  and  this  freak 
with  the  false  whiskers  and  the  huge  green  turban 
stood  glaring  at  us  savage. 

"Rikky  tikky  tavvy,  gazzoom!"  says  he,  ex- 
plosive. 

"Alia  il  allah,  kerzam!"  says  Barry.  "Three 
pilgrims  from  the  desert  looking  for  food  and 
drink." 

"Enter  pilgrims,  but  'ware  the  curse  of  the 
Mad  Mullah,"  says  he,  waving  us  in. 

"What — what's  he  for?"  asks  Inez. 

"Just  local  color,"  says  Barry.  "He's  there 
so  you  won't  notice  how  weak  the  soup  is,  or 
grouch  about  the  chewy  cold-storage  chicken. 
And  all  this  yellow  cheesecloth  hung  from  the 
ceiling  is  supposed  to  make  you  think  you're 
dining  in  a  tent  out  on  the  desert.  See  the  guns 
and  spears  on  the  walls?  Quite  Oriental,  eh?" 

"But  I  don't  see  any  place  to  eat,"  I  objects. 
"Where  are  the  chairs  and  tables?" 

"Oh,  those  would  be  too  commonplace  for  a 
joint  like  this,"  says  Barry.  "Here's  where  we 
each  collect  a  cushion  and  squat  on  the  rugs,  as 
if  we  were  regular  Arabs.  That's  the  idea,  Trilby 
May.  Come  on,  Inez.  Camp  down  with  us." 

She  eases  herself  down  as  graceful  as  a  baby 
elephant  doing  a  trick,  and  then  s-  t*\\  female 
with  henna-kissed  hair  and  a  lot  of  veils  floating 

159 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

over  her  harem  costume  comes  to  serve  the  first 
course.  As  a  regular  meal  I  can't  hand  it  much, 
but  it  was  served  in  funny  crockery  bowls,  and 
the  bread  looked  like  an  overgrown  pancake,  and 
the  muddy  black  coffee  came  in  dinky  little  brass 
cups,  so  there  was  novelty  if  not  nourishment. 
And  as  a  finishing  touch,  the  Mullah  person 
lugged  over  something  that  looked  like  a  young 
baseburner  coal  stove,  and  touched  a  match  to  it. 

"The  hookah — Turkish  pipe,"  explains  Barry, 
unwinding  three  flexible  tubes  and  passing  them 
around.  "Have  a  few  puffs?" 

"I'll  try  anything  once,"  says  I. 

"Pah!"  says  Inez,  after  one  whiff.    "No  good." 

At  which  Mr.  Mullah,  who'd  been  lingering 
near  and  had  caught  the  remark,  proceeds  to 
improve  on  his  act  by  letting  on  to  be  furious. 
"Dog  of  an  unbeliever!"  he  yells.  "Is  it  so 
thou  would  mock  the  sacred  rites  of  hospitality? 
By  Allah!  but  it  shall  not  be!" 

"Hey?"  asks  Inez. 

"Smoke,  daughter  of  the  hated  Giaour!"  he 
tells  her.  "Smoke  ere  the  curse  of  the  Mad 
Mullah  descends  upon  you!" 

He's  standing  over  her  threatening,  his  dull 
eyes  leering  from  his  painted  face,  and  a  lean 
finger  pointing  to  the  pipe  tube.  Two  girls  who 
had  come  in  with  another  party  and  were  squat- 
ting on  cushions  near  by,  started  giggling,  and 

160 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

the   henna-haired   female   coming   in    from   the 
kitchen  with  a  tray  of  food  stops  to  grin. 

"How  foolish!"  says  Inez,  waving  him  away. 

"What!"  shouts  the  Mullah.  "Sacrilege  in 
the  tent!  Smoke,  woman!  The  Mad  Mullah 
commands.  Here!"  And  with  that  he  jams  the 
mouthpiece  between  her  lips. 

"Oh,  I  say  now!"  protests  Barry. 

"Silence,  dog!"  says  the  other.  "Smoke  she 
must." 

He  certainly  did  look  fierce  in  the  outlandish 
rig,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  he  was  just 
play  acting  or  what.  Almost  any  girl  would  have 
been  scared  stiff  by  that  time.  But  not  Inez. 
What  she  can't  see  she  might  be  vafraid  of,  but 
nothing  else. 

"You  get  fresh,  eh?"  says  Inez.    "Huh!" 

And  the  next  thing  this  Mullah  party  knows 
she  has  reached  up,  grabbed  him  by  the  neck, 
pulled  him  down  across  her  knees,  and  is  laying 
on  the  spanks  like  a  cranky  schoolma'am  who's 
had  her  picture  drawn  on  the  blackboard.  They 
weren't  any  love  pats,  either.  Inez  was  brought 
up  on  a  farm  with  four  brothers  and  she  knows 
just  what  to  do  when  a  male  treats  her  rough. 
Also,  she's  been  used  to  swinging  a  wood  ax  or 
a  bean  flail  for  hours  at  a  stretch.  And  she  sure 
made  the  dust  fly  from  those  red  cotton  bags  Mr. 
Mullah  was  wearing  for  trousers. 

161 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Ouch!  Wowey!"  he  screams,  kicking  and 
wriggling.  *'Stop  her,  Gwendolyn!" 

But  Gwendolyn,  who  seems  to  be  the  female 
with  the  revised  hair,  simply  parks  the  tray  on 
the  floor  and  rocks  back  and  forth  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips  and  lets  the  chuckles  flow  free. 

"Oh,  Percey!"  she  gurgles.  "You  look  too 
funny  for  words!" 

"There!"  says  Inez,  giving  him  one  last  whack 
to  grow  on.  "I  guess  you  no  get  fresh  again 
right  off." 

At  which  she  gives  him  a  shove  that  sends  him 
rolling  across  the  rug  almost  into  a  dinner-party 
group  that  have  been  holding  their  breath  as 
they  watched. 

"Why,  Inez!"  says  I.    "How  impetuous!" 

As  for  Barry  Platt,  he  has  watched  this  strong- 
arm  exhibition  without  saying  a  word,  but  he 
acts  sort  of  awed  and  thoughtful. 

Naturally,  the  one  who  is  most  disturbed  by 
this  little  outbreak  of  temperament  is  Percey, 
the  Mad  Mullah.  Maybe  he  wasn't  really  mad 
before,  but  there's  no  doubt  about  it  now.  After 
he's  picked  himself  up  and  felt  to  see  if  his  bones 
are  all  whole,  he  stalks  tragic  over  to  Gwendolyn, 
who  still  shows  signs  of  mirth. 

"All  right!"  he  growls  at  her.  "Laugh  your 
silly  head  off.  But  this  ends  it  all.  Under- 
stand?" 

162 


INEZ  KNOCKS   'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

"Why,  whatever  do  you  mean,  Percey?"  says 
she.  "Ends  what?" 

"Everything  between  us,"  says  he.  "I've 
stood  for  a  good  deal  from  you,  Gwendolyn,  ever 
since  you  came  between  me  and  Birdie  Collins. 
You  queered  an  act  that  I'd  always  been  able  to 
book  for  big  time  in  the  best  houses.  That 
sketch  of  mine  had  been  a  knockout  for  two 
seasons  until  you  horned  in  and  took  Birdie's 
place.  After  that — nothing  but  canceled  con- 
tracts. And  then  you  buffaloed  me  into  this  fool 
enterprise.  Bah!  It  was  bad  enough  having  to 
eat  left-over  spaghetti  three  times  a  day  and 
watching  you  behave  kittenish  with  bald-headed 
old  sports  and  young  bank  clerks.  But  when 
you  ring  in  a  female  Dempsey  and  let  her  nearly 
kill  me,  that  is  the  final  touch.  I'm  through, 
Gwendolyn." 

"Really?"  says  she.  "Seems  to  me  I've  heard 
you  say  something  like  that  before,  Percey  dear." 

"Don't  Percey-dear  me,"  he  snaps.  "I'll  show 
you." 

And  he  tears  off  the  green  turban,  slamming  it 
on  the  floor  and  jumping  on  it,  peevish.  Next 
he  sheds  the  spangled  jacket,  and  as  he  throws 
that  into  a  corner  he  dashes  towards  the  back 
room. 

"Inez,"  says  I,  "I'm  afraid  you've  busted  up 
the  show." 

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INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  no  care,"  says  Inez. 

"Still,"  says  I,  "perhaps  we'd  better  register 
a  word  or  two  of  sympathy  with  the  lady  man- 
ager. Eh,  Barry?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,'"'  says  Barry.  "She  doesn't 
seem  to  be  much  worried.  Perhaps  Percey  is  only 
pulling  an  old  bluff." 

"If  he  is,"  says  I,  "he's  making  it  thorough. 
See?" 

For  here  comes  the  ex-Mullah  carrying  a  bat- 
tered kit  bag  with  the  end  of  a  necktie  and  part 
of  a  collar  sticking  from  one  corner.  He  has 
washed  off  most  of  the  make-up  and  has  made  a 
quick  change  to  citizen's  clothes. 

" Percey ! "  gasps  Gwendolyn.  "Where — where 
are  you  going?" 

"To  find  Birdie,"  says  he.  "I  know  where  she 
is,  too,  and  inside  of  ten  days  we'll  be  booking 
our  old  sketch  on  the  summer  circuit." 

"Good  Gawd!"  wails  Gwendolyn,  slumping 
on  the  rug  as  the  door  slams  behind  him. 

Well,  of  course  we  couldn't  just  breeze  out  and 
leave  her  like  that.  Besides,  Barry  hadn't  settled 
his  bill.  We  helped  her  into  a  corner,  Barry  and 
I,  propped  her  up  with  cushions,  and  offered  all 
the  soothing  words  that  came  to  us. 

"Awfully  sorry,"  says  I,  "but  Inez  didn't  mean 
to  be  quite  so  rough  with  him.  She  doesn't  real- 
ize her  strength,  you  see,  and  I  had  no  idea  she 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

was  going  to  cut  loose  or  I  would  have  stopped 
her.    Maybe  he'll  come  back  by  morning." 

"No,  he'll  not,"  moans  Gwendolyn.  "Not  if 
that  Birdie  woman  gets  hold  of  him.  And  we 
were  doing  so  well  here!  Oh,  oh!" 

"  But  there  are  a  lot  of  vaudeville  artists  knock- 
ing around  Times  Square,"  suggests  Barry.  "I 
can  round  up  a  dozen  for  you  any  day." 

"Not  one  like  Percey  Pollock,"  insists  Gwen- 
dolyn. "He — he  was  such  a  help.  Why,  he 
would  even  wipe  dishes  after  hours.  And  now 
he — he's  gone — forever.  I'll  just  have  to  close 
Up,  that's  all." 

"Tough  luck,"  says  Barry.  "If  there's  any- 
thing we  can  do — " 

"Wait!"  says  Gwendolyn,  suddenly  sitting  up 
and  wiping  her  eyes.  "Who  is  that  superb 
creature  who  gave  Percey  what  was  coming  to 
him  so  thoroughly?" 

"That's  my  friend,  Miss  Inez  Petersen,"  says  I. 

"But  who  are  you?"  demands  Gwendolyn. 
"What  do  you  do?" 

"Us?"  says  I.  "Oh,  we're  a  versatile  pair. 
We  do  almost  anything  from  dealing  'em  off  the 
arm  in  quick  lunch  joints  to  acting  in  the  movies." 

"But  now?"  she  insists. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  says  I,  "we're  strictly  at 
liberty  just  now;  at  least,  we  will  be  after  to- 
morrow. Why?" 

165 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Let  me  look  at  your  Inez,"  says  Gwendolyn. 

"Come,  Inez,"  says  I,  beckoning  her  over. 
"This  is  Miss— er— 

"Mrs.  Tremaine,"  says  Gwendolyn,  getting 
on  her  feet  and  shaking  hands.  "What  a  glori- 
ous physique  you  have,  my  dear!  Such  exquisite 
coloring!  Such  poise!  Such  glorious  eyes  and 
hair!  A  pink-and-white  goddess.  That's  it! 
Oh,  I've  found  it!  The  white  goddess!" 

"Hey?"  says  Inez. 

"That  is  what  you  shall  be.  Here!"  says 
Gwendolyn,  waving  her  arms  enthusiastic.  "Will 
you  come,  dearie?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez.    "WThat  you  want?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  be  the  presiding 
genius  in  the  'Cave  of  the  \Vhite  Goddess,"'  says 
Gwendolyn.  "In  two  days  I  can  do  it.  Yes,  I've 
felt  all  along  that  the  Mad  Mullah  was  playing 
out.  It  only  brought  the  women.  And  women 
aren't  spenders  or  tippers.  What  we  want  is  to 
get  the  men  coming.  And  the  White  Goddess 
will  do  it.  They'll  go  wild  over  you.  Absolutely. 
Listen,  Inez  dear;  I  shall  change  this  place  into 
a  white-and-gold  room.  A  little  paint  and  a  few 
yards  of  muslin  will  do  it.  At  one  end  will  be  a 
white-and-gold  throne.  There  you  shall  sit, 
crowned  and  glorious,  reigning  over  the  ban- 
quet. It  will  knock  'em  cold.  Will  you  do  it, 
dearie?" 

166 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

Inez  stares  at  her  a  minute.  "What  I  have  to 
do?"  she  asks. 

"Nothing  but  look  beautiful  and  make 
change,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "From  six  until 
eleven-thirty.  You  will,  won't  you?" 

"Trilby  May,  too?"  demands  Inez. 

"Who?"  asks  Gwendolyn. 

"That's  me,"  says  I.  "And  I  doubt  if  you 
can  get  Inez  unless  you  work  us  in  as  a  team.  I 
don't  just  see,  though,  how  I  would  fit  in." 

"Quite  simple,"  says  she.  "As  a  lady  in  wait- 
ing." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "On  the  tables?  Well,  I  can 
do  that.  What  do  you  say,  Inez — shall  we  give 
it  a  whirl?" 

"How  much?"  says  Inez. 

"Oh,  we  will  arrange  that  satisfactorily,"  says 
Gwendolyn.  "Suppose  we  say  twenty  apiece 
to  start  with,  and  then  a  ten-per-cent  '  bonus 
on  all  receipts  over  a  certain  amount.  I  always 
believe  in  sharing  profits  with  my  co-workers. 
And  this  is  bound  to  go  big.  Shall  we  call  it 
settled?" 

Inez  looks  at  me  inquiring.  "It's  a  whiz," 
says  I.  "Goddessing  is  Inez's  long  suit,  and 
my  life  work  seems  to  be  to  give  her  what  she 
wants.  We'll  show  up  Monday  afternoon,  shall 
we?" 

"About  five-thirty,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "I 
12  167 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

hope  to  have  the  place  ready  by  then,  and  that 
will  give  us  time  for  a  little  rehearsing.  Good-by, 
Inez.  Percey  Pollock  can  go  hang." 

And  so,  hardly  an  hour  after  we  had  wandered 
into  this  Greenwich  Village  joint  as  strangers, 
we  walked  out  as  near  partners. 

"Which  is  what  I  call  rather  shifty  work," 
says  Barry.  "Say,  do  you  think  you're  going  to 
like  it  down  here?" 

"We've  tackled  a  lot  of  things  that  looked 
worse,"  says  I.  "Anyway,  now  that  Inez's  rich 
uncle  has  faded  into  the  background  more  hope- 
lessly than  ever,  we've  got  to  do  something. 
Besides,  we  should  worry.  It's  Gwendolyn  that's 
got  to  do  the  hustling.  Three  days!  I  doubt  if 
she  can  make  the  grade." 

But  I  didn't  know  Gwendolyn.  When  we  re- 
ports down  there  Monday  afternoon  I  could 
hardly  find  the  place,  it  was  so  changed.  The 
alley  had  been  cleaned  up,  the  brick  walls  white- 
washed, and  out  at  the  entrance  was  a  new  sign 
announcing  "The  Cave  of  the  White  Goddess." 
Inside  were  a  lot  of  white  tables  and  gilt  chairs, 
with  white  hangings  as  a  background,  and  at 
the  right  of  the  door  as  you  came  in  was  this 
throne  affair.  Course,  it's  nothing  more  than  a 
foot-high  platform  with  a  sort  of  black  velvet 
canopy  and  side  curtains  to  it,  and  a  heavy, 
high-backed  old  chair  that  has  been  treated  to  a 

1 68 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

coat  of  black  enamel.    But  the  effect  is  more  or 
less  striking. 

"Well,  how  does  it  all  hit  you?"  asks  Gwen- 
dolyn. 

"Square  between  the  eyes,"  says  I.  "Say, 
you're  some  grand  little  transformer,  aren't  you  ? 
You  must  have  had  half  a  dozen  men  working 
here." 

"Men!"  says  Gwendolyn.  "I  should  say  not. 
Only  a  carpenter  for  half  a  day.  The  rest  I  did 
myself  with  the  help  of  two  Michigan  girls  who 
are  studying  interior  decorating.  I  gave  them  a 
lesson  that  lasted  eighteen  hours,  and  didn't 
charge  them  a  cent.  Now  to  dress  Inez  as  the 
White  Goddess.  I  picked  up  a  perfectly  corking 
costume  at  a  theatrical  wardrobe  sale.  Let's  see 
how  it  fits." 

It's  a  white  satin  affair,  heavy  with  imitation 
pearls  and  a  girdle  of  white  silk  rope  thick  enough 
to  tie  a  mule  with.  There's  plenty  of  train  to  it 
but  no  sleeves  to  speak  of;  mighty  little  back, 
and  a  sketchy  front.  Gwendolyn's  idea  of  god- 
desses seems  to  be  that  they  should  dress  mostly 
from  the  waist  down,  with  a  slit  skirt,  at  that. 

"Gosh!"  says  I,  when  we'd  shoehorned  Inez 
into  it.  "I  hope  there's  some  way  of  anchoring 
those  shoulder  straps  in  place." 

There  was.  Gwendolyn  did  it  with  strips  of 
surgeon's  tape,  and  after  she'd  draped  a  few 

169 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

yards  of  white  tulle  around  Inez's  shoulders  the 
exhibit  wasn't  quite  so  startling. 

"Now  we'll  see  how  you  look  on  your  throne," 
says  Gwendolyn.  "You  take  her  train,  Trilby 
May.  There!" 

Maybe  you  can  imagine  the  effect — Inez 
draped  in  white  satin  and  pearls,  her  white  shoul- 
ders and  arms  glimmering  through  the  white 
tulle,  and  sitting  in  that  black  chair  with  the 
black  velvet  hangings  behind  and  around  her. 

"Isn't  she  a  real  goddess?"  demands  Gwen- 
dolyn. 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I.  "That  is,  if  you  don't 
mind  a  goddess  with  the  gum  habit." 

"Oh,  of  course  she  mustn't  do  that,  not  during 
business  hours,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "But  I  ask 
you,  Trilby  May,  if  she  isn't  a  picture?" 

"A  regular  circus  tableau,"  says  I.  "Say, 
with  her  posed  up  there  not  a  man  in  the  place 
will  know  whether  he's  eating  soup  or  salad.  I 
guess  you've  picked  a  winner  this  time,  Mrs. 
Tremaine." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "Within 
forty-eight  hours  the  fame  of  the  "White  God- 
dess" should  spread  from  one  end  of  the  Village 
to  the  other." 

She  knew  what  she  was  talking  about.  From 
a  dozen  dinner  customers  who  dropped  in  that 
first  night  just  out  of  curiosity,  our  trade  jumped 

170 


INEZ  KNOCKS  'EM  FOR  A  GOOL 

to  forty-odd  the  next  evening,  and  by  Thursday 
we  had  'em  standing  in  line  clear  out  into  the 
alley,  waiting  for  tables.  As  you  might  know, 
Barry  Platt  was  among  those  who  came  early 
and  hung  around  late. 

"Weil,  Barry,"  says  I,  over  his  shoulder,  as 
I'm  serving  him  with  a  demi-tasse,  "are  you 
getting  an  eyeful?" 

"Yes,"  says  he.  "And  I  wish  I  had  sense 
enough  to  let  it  ride  at  that." 

"Can  it  be,"  says  I,  "that  you're  remembering 
what  happened  to  Percey?" 

Barry  shivers  as  though  I'd  dropped  a  chunk 
of  ice  down  the  back  of  his  neck.  "Let's  not  talk 
about  it,"  says  he. 

So  we  didn't.  He  is  a  nice  boy,  Barry  Platt. 
But  he  has  two  left  eyes. 


Chapter  X 
What  Inez  Missed  Out  On 

T  DON'T  know  how  long  this  moon-faced  per- 
son with  the  fresh  coat  of  sunburn  on  his 
bald  head  had  been  trying  to  give  me  the  friendly 
eye.  For,  with  Mrs.  Tremaine  subbing  in  the 
kitchen  for  a  cook  who  was  enjoying  an  ulcerated 
tooth,  and  me  trying  to  wait  on  six  tables  all  by 
my  lonesome,  you  can  guess  how  much  spare 
time  I  had  to  waste  on  a  middle-aged  cut-up  who 
thought  that  so  long  as  he  was  dining  in  Green- 
wich Village  it  was  up  to  him  to  get  gay. 

But  finally,  along  toward  eight-thirty,  when 
the  big  rush  had  sort  of  eased  off,  I  did  take  his 
signal  and  drift  over  to  the  corner  table  where 
he  was  finishing  his  demi-tasse.  One  of  these 
poddy,  short-legged,  barrel-waisted  men,  he  is, 
with  soft  chubby  fingers  and  a  chin  dimple.  And 
somehow  I  am  always  suspicious  of  the  chin- 
dimpled  male.  Not  that  he's  apt  to  be  any  pro- 
fessional home  wrecker,  or  anything  like  that, 
but  generally  he  has  a  mushy,  sentimental  streak 
in  him  that  shows  sooner  or  later. 

173 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

Even  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  time  table  and 
the  home  paper  sticking  from  his  coat  pocket,  I 
could  have  guessed  he  was  an  out-of-town  trip- 
per. For  one  thing,  his  hair  was  cut  round  in  the 
back,  coal  heaver's  style;  and  then  he  wore  three 
different  lodge  emblems — elk's  head  in  his  but- 
tonhole, gold  square  and  compass  as  a  stickpin, 
and  a  Shriner's  fob  on  his  watch  chain — small- 
town stuff  that  you  can't  go  wrong  on.  Besides, 
when  he  first  came  in  he'd  almost  started  to  take 
off  his  coat  and  hang  it  up,  but  had  remembered 
that  he  was  away  from  home,  just  in  time. 

"More  coffee,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"Sakes  no!"  says  he.  "Another  cup  of  that 
and  I  wouldn't  get  to  sleep  until  after  midnight. 
Don't  tempt  me,  girlie." 

"Trust  me,  mister,"  says  I.  "Tempting  isn't 
my  line.  Here's  your  check." 

"Aw,  say!"  says  he.  "Don't  go  off  mad.  I'm 
not  trying  to  kidnap  you,  girlie." 

"That's  comforting,"  says  I.  "What's  the 
folksy  idea,  then  ? " 

"Just  lonesome,  that's  all,"  says  he.  "Seems 
funny  to  you,  I  expect,  but  this  is  such  a  whaling 
big  town,  and  there's  so  many  people  you  don't 
know,  that  after  you've  knocked  around  in  it  a 
couple  of  days  you  begin  to  feel  blue  and  home- 
sick. But  I  suppose  you  were  born  and  brought 
up  here?" 

173 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  indulged  in  a  sketchy  smile. 
Say,  it  doesn't  take  long  to  put  on  the  New  York 
finish,  does  it?  Probably  this  snappy  waitress 
costume  with  the  short  white  smock  effect,  and 
white  silk  hose  with  the  black  clocks,  helped 
some.  And  then  the  box  cut  on  my  carroty  hair. 
Oh,  sure!  Gwendolyn  had  wished  that  on  me 
the  first  day.  It  did  get  a  gasp  out  of  Inez,  but 
once  I  got  used  to  going  without  hairpins  and 
found  how  easy  it  was  to  coax  a  curl  into  the 
ends  of  my  rusty  mop,  I  was  glad  I'd  had  the 
nerve  to  do  it.  And  it  does  give  rather  a  pert, 
zippy  look  that  I'd  lacked  before. 

I  wondered  what  he'd  say  if  he'd  known  how 
few  months  it  had  been  since  I  left  Superior 
Street,  Duluth,  with  a  vague  idea  that  Broadway 
started  from  somewhere  in  front  of  Tammany 
Hall  and  ran  through  the  middle  of  Central  Park 
to  the  Bronx  Zoo;  or  how  he'd  stare  if  he  could 
see  a  sketch  of  me  in  the  berry-picking  costume 
I  wore  when  I  found  Inez  Petersen  at  Tamarack 
Junction  and  let  her  persuade  me  to  leave  home 
and  stepmother  forever. 

I  didn't  tell  him,  though.  The  safe  bet  is  to 
tell  these  cleft-chin  sports  only  where  they  get 
off,  and  let  it  ride  at  that. 

"Listen,  uncle,"  says  I,  watching  him  squirm 
at  the  pet  name,  "if  I  tried  to  chirk  up  all  the 
lonely  out-of-town  buyers  who  stray  in  here,  with 

174 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

affectionate  dispositions  and  enough  nerve  to 
call  me  girlie,  I'd  have  to  keep  double-entry  date 
books,  and  the  madam  would  need  two  more 
waitresses  in  my  place." 

That  gets  him  rosy  in  the  ears.  "Excuse  me, 
sister,"  says  he,  "but  you  get  me  all  wrong. 
Absolutely.  I  didn't  mean  a  thing.  Honest!" 

"Then  that's  that,"  says  I.  "But  if  you  should 
feel  like  getting  a  bit  frisky,  try  it  on  our  White 
Goddess,  over  at  the  cashier's  desk.  That's  part 
of  her  job,  acting  as  shock  absorber  for  the  place. 
You  haven't  missed  her,  have  you?" 

And  I  nods  at  the  black-velvet  throne  affair 
over  by  the  door,  where  Inez,  in  her  white  satin 
robe,  sits  spectacular  behind  the  white  enameled 
cash  register. 

"No,  I've  been  watching  her,"  says  he.  "She's 
a  stunner,  all  right.  That's  what  this  friend  of 
mine  I  met  down  at  the  Atlantic  City  druggists' 
convention  told  me.  Said  if  I  was  going  to  stop 
over  in  New  York  I  ought  to  come  down  to  this 
here  Greenwich  Village  and  hunt  up  the  'Cave  of 
the  White  Goddess.'  So  I  did.  But  I'm  afraid 
I'm  a  little  past  the  goddess  stage.  Maybe  before 
my  bald  spot  spread  and  I  took  to  wearing  forty 
fats  I  might  have  sidled  up  to  her.  But  not  now. 
I've  noticed  that  the  young  sports  who  have 
tried  it  on  her  to-night  didn't  get  very  far.  Kind 
of  a  chilly  proposition,  isn't  she?" 

175 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Inez?"  says  I.  "Oh  no.  It's  just  that  she 
has  something  on  her  mind.  You  see,  she's  been 
without  her  gum  for  nearly  four  hours  now,  and 
she's  wondering  if  she  couldn't  slip  in  a  couple 
of  slabs  of  wintergreen  without  getting  a  call 
from  the  lady  boss.  Dinner  all  right,  sir?" 

"Bully!"  says  he.  "'Specially  that  spaghetti. 
Say,  do  you  know  that  almost  made  me  home- 
sick?" 

"I  suppose,"  says  I,  "it  was  something  like 
the  way  the  little  wife  fixes  it  up  for  you?" 

"Something?"  says  he.  "Why,  it  was  exactly 
the  way  she  serves  it.  That  is,  the  way  she  used 
to  before — well,  before  she  quit." 

"You  don't  mean — "  says  I,  rolling  my  eyes 
up  toward  where  that  kind  of  wives  are  supposed 
to  go. 

He  shakes  his  head.  "It's  a  thing  I  don't  often 
mention,"  says  he,  "but  I  mean  exactly  what  I 
said.  She  quit.  Went  away." 

"Oh!"  says  I,  gazing  around  to  see  if  the  two 
old-maid  slummers  at  the  middle  table  were  going 
to  splurge  on  an  extra  dessert.  They  were  not. 
One  was  choking  over  a  cigarette  she  was  trying 
to  smoke,  and  the  other  was  watching  sympa- 
thetic. "Just — just  flitted,  eh?"  I  went  on. 
"With  a  handsomer  guy?" 

"Thank  Heavens  it  wasn  t  so  bad  as  that," 
says  he.  "No.  I  knew  she  was  going.  She  told 

176 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

me  all  about  it  weeks  before.  Not  that  I  got 
what  it  was  all  about,  exactly.  Had  something 
to  do  with  her  not  being  able  to  stand  Main 
Street  and  the  Thanatopsis  Club  any  longer. 
Never  heard  of  the  club  myself,  and  we  haven't 
any  street  by  that  name  in  our  town  as  I  know 
of.  We  got  Marquette  Avenue  and  Huron  Street, 
but  I  can't  see  what  anybody  could  object  to  in 
either  of  them — six  or  seven  blocks  of  as  good 
stores  as  you'll  find  anywhere,  even  if  I  do  say 
it.  Mine's  the  Elite  Pharmacy,  across  from  the 
Phoenix  House  and  next  door  to  the  Bijou  movie 
theater.  Some  way,  though,  Gwen  seemed  to 
get  sore  on  the  whole  outfit  and — " 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  breaks  in.  "There's  a 
party  counting  out  a  two-bit  tip  for  a  four-thirty 
dinner  check  and  I  gotta  give  'em  the  cold  eye 
or  they'll  get  away  with  it." 

They  did,  too,  but  I'll  bet  they  remember  all 
the  way  back  to  Chillicothe  or  Salina  that  low- 
temperature  look  I  gave  'em. 

And  then  I  strolled  back  to  the  visiting 
druggist.  "Who  was  it  you  said  got  sore?"  I 
asked. 

"Gwen,"  says  he.  "The  wife,  you  know.  All 
of  a  sudden,  too.  Appeared  to  be  as  contented 
and  happy  as  any  in  our  crowd.  We  were  in 
everything  there  was  to  be  in — clubs,  lodges,  sub- 
scription dances,  dramatic  association,  and  so  on. 

177 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

She  was  good  at  dramatics,  too;  always  had  the 
star  part.  And  was  asked  to  sing  at  church  en- 
tertainments and  charity  affairs.  Clever  at  get- 
ting up  costumes  and  decorating  booths.  But 
she  kept  saying  she  couldn't  live  her  own  life, 
couldn't  express  herself,  whatever  that  meant. 
Got  it  from  some  book,  I  think.  Anyway,  that 
night  when  she  broke  loose  at  me  she  was  mighty 
bitter  against  everything.  Said  she  wasn't  really 
living  in  a  place  like  that,  but  was — well,  I  forget 
just  how  she  did  put  it." 

"Like  she  was  in  dead  storage,"  I  suggests. 

"That  was  the  idea,"  says  he.  "Course,  I 
didn't  dream  anything  would  come  of  it.  Thought 
she'd  simmer  down.  And  next  thing  I  knew  she 
was  gone." 

"Big  scandal,  eh?"  I  asks. 

"No,"  says  he.  "I  gave  out  that  she'd  gone 
to  take  care  of  a  married  sister  in  Bridgeport 
who  was  sick,  and  might  stay  for  months.  Some 
of  the  women  sniffed  at  that,  I  expect,  but  that's 
all  they  ever  got  out  of  me,  or  will." 

"Miss  her  much?"  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  he.  "But  I'm  not  sore  at  her. 
Maybe  I  was  some  to  blame.  We  didn't  get  out 
evenings  very  often,  on  account  of  my  being  tied 
up  at  the  store.  And  I  expect  I  have  kind  of 
settled  down  into  a  rut,  as  you  might  say.  That's 
what  she  complained  most  about — seeing  the 

178 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

same  people,  doing  the  same  things,  day  after 
day,  year  in  and  year  out.  Said  the  monotony 
of  it  got  on  her  nerves,  even  my  wanting  the 
same  things  to  eat  and  wearing  the  same  kind  of 
clothes.  Kind  of  lively  and  restless,  Gwen  always 
was.  Likes  to  wear  odd  rigs,  and  do  queer 
stunts,  and  say  queer  things.  Only  got  the  other 
women  talking  about  her,  and  that  made  her 
wild,  too.  But  I  didn't  think  she'd  really  quit. 
She  did,  though."* 

I  don't  claim  I  was  much  thrilled  over  the 
commonplace  tragedy  that  had  come  like  a  blight 
on  the  life  of  this  bald-headed  druggist  from 
somewhere  in  Michigan,  but  so  long  as  he  didn't 
insist  on  having  his  hand  held  or  his  cheek  patted 
I  was  willing  to  listen. 

"Yes?"  says  I.  "Been  gone  long?" 
"Over  a  year,"  says  he,  "and  when  you're 
taking  your  meals  at  the  Phoenix  House  that 
seems  a  long  time.  I  can  stand  the  fried  steak 
and  the  rubber  omelettes  and  the  canned  peas, 
but  when  they  give  me  spaghetti  that's  been 
merely  dragged  through  hot  water  and  splashed 
with  stewed  tomato,  I  feel  like  I  want  to  go  out 
and  choke  the  cook.  Gwen  spoiled  me,  I  suppose, 
and  when  I  ran  across  my  favorite  dish  here, 
cooked  just  as  it  should  be,  and  served  with 
grated  cheese—  Say,  I  wish  you'd  pass  the  word 
back  to  your  chef  that  I'm  much  obliged.  And 

179 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

here — take  this  in  with  my  compliments,  will 
you?  Wait,  I'll  stick  in  my  card." 

"I  sure  will,"  says  I,  collecting  the  dollar  bill 
and  the  business  card  he  handed  out.  "I'll  give 
it  to  her  myself." 

And  just  for  that  I  did  pat  him  friendly  on  the 
shoulder  as  I  cleared  away  his  ice-cream  dish 
and  started  through  the  swing  door  into  the 
back  basement,  where  Mrs.  Tremaine  had  been 
juggling  pots  and  pans  on  the  gas  stove  all  the 
evening.  I  figured  that  this  little  tribute  of  ap- 
preciation ought  to  cheer  her  up. 

"Look,  Gwendolyn!"  says  I.  "Your  cooking 
certainly  has  got  you  in  right  with  one  party, 
even  if  he  is  only  an  out-of-town  druggist  with 
an  extension  forehead  and  a  chin  dimple.  It 
was  the  spaghetti  1'Italienne  that  got  him,  and 
he's  expressed  his  undying  gratitude  with  a  whole 
dollar.  Not  anonymous,  either.  Here's  his 
card." 

Gwendolyn  wipes  her  hands  on  a  dish  towel 
and  takes  the  tribute.  And  the  next  thing  I 
knew  she'd  let  out  a  gasp  and  slid  limp  into  a 
chair.  I  had  expected  her  to  chuckle,  or  maybe 
laugh  outright,  but  I  hadn't  looked  for  her  to 
pass  out  like  that.  She  isn't  that  kind,  you  know. 

"Oh,  come,  Gwendolyn!"  says  I.  "You 
mustn't  let  an  artistic  success  sweep  you  off 
your  feet.  Nobody  else  even  mentioned  the 

1 80 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

spaghetti  to-night,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
fact  that  it  reminded  this  poddy  person  of  his 
home  over  the  drug  store  and  the  little  wife  who 
used  to — " 

"Please!"  breaks  in  Gwendolyn.  "I — I  know 
him." 

"Eh?  "says  I. 

"I — I'm  the  little  wife,"  says  she.  "It's  Oscar 
— my  husband." 

"Gosh!"  says  I.  "The  one  you  complained  to 
about  not  being  able  to  stand  Main  Street  and 
the  Thanatopsis  Club  any  longer?" 

That  seems  to  revive  Gwendolyn.  She  starts 
up  and  stares  at  me.  "What  do  you  know  about 
all  that?"  she  demands.  "How  do  you  come 
to- 

" Simple  enough,"  says  I.  "For  the  last 
twenty  minutes  your  Oscar  has  been  telling  me 
the  story  of  his  life.  No,  I  wasn't  vamping  him. 
Honest !  He  was  just  feeling  lonesome  and  folksy, 
and  the  spaghetti  started  him  off." 

"How  strange!"  says  she.    "Oscar!    Here!" 

"Not  so  weird  at  that,"  says  I.  "He's  been 
down  to  Atlantic  City  for  a  druggists'  conven- 
tion, and  besides  getting  his  bald  spot  sunburnt, 
he  met  some  one  who  put  him  wise  that  the 
'Cave  of  the  White  Goddess'  was  worth  visiting 
on  his  way  back.  Well,  I  don't  suppose  you're 
wild  about  seeing  him?" 

181 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"No,"  says  she.  "I — I  don't  care  to  see  him, 
or  to  have  him  know." 

"I  thought  not,"  says  I,  starting  to  go  back. 

"Wait,  Trilby  May,"  says  she.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

"Why,  after  your  affair  with  Percey  Pollock," 
says  I. 

"Oh,  that!"  says  she,  shrugging  her  shoulders 
careless. 

Probably  I  gawped  at  her  about  then.  For  you 
remember  about  Percey,  I  suppose  ?  He  was  the 
vaudeville  artist  we  found  here  supplying  the 
local  color  when  this  joint  was  The  Mad  Mullah, 
only  a  week  or  ten  days  ago.  And  during  the 
row  that  followed  Inez's  little  spanking  reproof 
to  Percey  it  came  out  that  Mrs.  Tremaine  had 
been  traveling  with  him  as  part  of  a  sketch  team. 
Of  course,  that  might  not  mean  much  in  her 
career,  but  I'm  not  so  used  to  the  way  actors 
shift  around  that  I  could  help  showing  I  was  a 
bit  shocked.  She  got  it,  all  right. 

"You  don't  understand,"  says  she.  "I'd 
known  Percey  Pollock  since  I  was  a  girl.  He 
used  to  live  in  our  town  and  we  were  in  any  num- 
ber of  private  theatricals  together  before  he  left 
to  go  on  the  stage  as  a  professional.  He  would 
write  me  occasionally.  Oscar  knew  all  about  it. 
He  wasn't  worried.  Rather  a  sissy-boy,  Percey 
was.  No  harm  in  him.  He  simply  gave  me  a 

182 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

chance  to  go  on  the  stage  when  I — well,  when  I 
went  away  from  home.  But  I  couldn't  stand 
vaudeville.  It  was  awful;  you've  no  idea.  So  I 
persuaded  Percey  to  go  in  with  me  here  as  the 
Mad  Mullah.  That's  all  there  was  to  it." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Then  maybe  you  would  like 
a  few  words  with  Oscar?" 

"I— I  think  not,"  says  she.    "Why  should  I?" 

"He's  kind  of  lonesome,"  says  I. 

"Stupid  persons  usually  are,"  says  Gwendolyn. 
"No  inner  resources.  I  wonder  how  he's  been 
passing  his  off  evenings  since  I've  been  away? 
Either  at  some  lodge,  or  going  to  the  movies,  or 
playing  solitaire,  I  suppose.  Did  he  tell  you  how 
I  used  to  nag  him,  trying  to  get  him  interested 
in  outside  things,  to  read  books,  and  so  on?" 

"No,"  says  I.  "Chiefly  he  described  what  a 
wonder  you  were  and  how  he  couldn't  blame  you 
for  leaving." 

"Isn't  that  just  like  Oscar!"  says  she.  "Al- 
ways good  natured.  Is — is  he  still  out  there?" 

"He  was  a  minute  ago,"  says  I. 

"But  I  couldn't  see  him  like  this,"  says  Gwen- 
dolyn. "I  should  have  to  slip  upstairs  and 
change.  I  shouldn't  want  to  have  him  find  me 
looking  like  a  cook.  Could  you  hold  him  for  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes,  Trilby  May?" 

"Nothing  simpler,"  says  I.  "He's  got  no  place 
to  go  but  out.  And  if  there's  going  to  be  a  re- 
13  183 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

union  perhaps  I'd  better  shunt  that  other  party, 
eh?" 

"Do,"  says  Gwendolyn. 

So  while  she  dashes  up  the  back  stairs  I  goes 
in  and  whispers  to  Oscar  that  he's  made  a  big 
hit  with  the  cook.  "Stick  around,"  says  I,  "if 
you've  nothing  better  to  do." 

"I  haven't,"  says  he. 

"Then  watch  me  put  the  skids  under  that 
bunch  of  chair  warmers  who  take  this  for  an  all- 
night  waiting  room,"  says  I. 

It's  done  by  bustling  around  busy,  brushing 
the  crumbs  in  their  laps,  and  shoving  in  the  bill 
with  the  finger  bowls.  They'd  no  more  than  paid 
up  and  started  for  the  door  than  Inez  yawns 
twice,  retrieves  her  gum  cud  from  the  back  of 
the  throne,  and  glances  annoyed  at  Oscar. 

"Don't  bother  about  him,"  I  says,  in  her  ear. 
"He's  going  to  get  the  surprise  of  his  life  shortly. 
Who  do  you  guess  he  is?" 

"Him?  "says  Inez.    "I  dunno." 

"S-s-sh!"  says  I.  "Gwendolyn's  hubby  that 
she  tossed  into  the  discards  a  year  or  so  back." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.    "Not  much,  eh?" 

Which  is  all  the  imagination  she  has.  If  she 
ever  happens  to  be  a  Mrs.  Enoch  Arden  I'll  bet 
all  the  greeting  Enoch  gets  will  be  a  "Well, 
where  you  stay  so  long?"  As  for  me,  I  was 
almost  as  thrilled  as  if  I  was  waiting  for  the 

184 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

second  act  of  a  melodrama.  In  fact,  I  had  to 
mix  in  and  set  the  stage  a  little  by  shifting  Oscar 
around  so  he  couldn't  see  Gwendolyn  when  she 
first  came  in  the  door,  and  then  sitting  down 
opposite  him  so  I  could. 

"Tell  me,"  says  I,  "didn't  you  ever  try  to 
find  the  missing  wife?" 

"What  was  the  use?"  says  he.  "If  she'd 
wanted  to  come  back  she  would.  I  heard  she 
went  on  the  stage,  and  after  that — well,  I  expect 
living  over  the  drug  store  with  me  would  seem 
tamer  than  ever." 

"Think  you'd  like  to  see  her  again?"  I  went 
on. 

"Would  I!"  says  he.  "I— I  can't  tell  you 
how  much." 

"You  needn't,"  says  I,  as  I  hears  the  door  knob 
turn.  "Just  look  over  your  right  shoulder." 

She's  a  quick-change  artist,  I'll  say.  For  in 
those  few  minutes  she'd  not  only  shifted  from  a 
grease-splashed  kimono  to  a  spiffy  evening  dress, 
but  she'd  done  up  the  henna-tinted  hair  ar- 
tistic and  brushed  in  a  complexion  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  blushing  bride.  In  fact, 
I  never  saw  her  look  better.  And  I  guess  Oscar 
hadn't. 

"Gwen!"  says  he,  breathing  it  out  husky. 

"Well,  Oscar?"  says  she,  holding  out  a  friendly 
hand. 

185 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Which  seemed  to  be  my  cue  for  calling  it  a 
day.  When  I  suggests  that  Inez  and  I  will  be 
going  along  now,  though,  she  shakes  her  head. 

"  Since  you  seem  to  know  all  about  both  of 
us,"  says  she,  "why  not  stay?  There's  going  to 
be  no  deep  emotional  scene,  I  hope.  Just  a 
meeting  of  two  old  friends.  Eh,  Oscar?'* 

"Sure,"  says  he.  "You're  looking  mighty  fine, 
Gwen.  Is  this  your — er — " 

"Yes,"  says  she.  "It's  my  enterprise.  Glad 
you  liked  the  spaghetti.  You  see,  on  account  of 
a  disabled  cook  I  had  to  fix  it  myself." 

"I  might  have  known,  Gwen,"  says  he,  "that 
nobody  could  do  it  just  like  that.  So — so  this 
is  where  you've  landed?"  and  he  looks  around, 
curious. 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "Yes,"  says  she. 
"In  The  Cave  of  the  White  Goddess.  I  have 
expressed  my  artistic  self  at  last,  you  see." 

Oscar  stares  at  her,  sort  of  puzzled.  "You — 
you  like  this  sort  of  thing,  do  you?"  he  asks. 

"Oh,  well  enough,"  says  she.  "That  is,  when 
I'm  not  having  trouble  with  the  cooks,  or  the 
landlord  doesn't  turn  fractious,  or  the  slumming 
parties  are  not  too  tiresome.  But  how  are  things 
at  home?" 

"Oh,  just  about  the  same,"  says  he.  "I've 
built  on  that  sleeping  porch  we  talked  so  much 
about.  Put  it  over  the  back  L  by  the  big  maple, 

1 86 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

just  as  you'd  planned.  Had  the  back  yard 
cleaned  up,  too." 

"Really!"  says  Gwendolyn. 

"And  while  I  was  at  it,"  he  goes  on,  "I  had 
'em  change  the  bathroom  as  you  wanted — built- 
in  tub,  tiled  floor,  and  everything.  Makes  it 
kind  of  nice." 

"I  should  think  it  would,"  says  Gwendolyn. 
"But,  how's  everybody?  Kate  Marshall  still 
running  the  subscription  dances  and  the  bridge 
club?" 

"I  believe  so,"  says  Oscar.  "The  Dramatic 
Association,  too.  They  put  on  a  piece  last  spring 
and  she  took  the  leading  part/' 

"Kate  did?"  says  Gwendolyn.  "Oh,  that's 
rich!  We  were  all  pretty  poor  actors,  but  she 
was  the  worst.  What  about  Minnie  Carter?  Is 
she  just  as  gay  as  ever?" 

"Not  quite,"  says  Oscar.  "She  had  twins 
last  March,  you  know;  and  Dick  Carter  is 
prouder  than  he  was  when  he  was  elected  mayor. 
Went  out  and  bought  a  limousine,  first  thing,  to 
drive  'em  around  in.  But  they  are  a  fine  pair  of 
twins,  no  getting  away  from  that.  I  was  over 
there  to  dinner  the  other  night." 

"Oh!"  says  Gwendolyn.  "Minnie  took  pity 
on  you,  I  suppose?  Where  do  you  get  your  meals 
now,  Oscar?" 

"Me?"  says  he.  "Well,  I've  been  eating  at 
187 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

the  Phoenix  mostly.  I  stand  it  as  long  as  I  can 
and  then  I  shift  to  the  Bon  Ton  lunch  for  a  while. 
I've  been  having  some  stomach  trouble." 

"I  should  think  you  would,"  says  she.  "The 
Phoenix  and  the  Bon  Ton!" 

"I  know,"  says  Oscar.  "Might  have  got  some 
one  to  come  in  and  cook  the  meals  for  me,  I 
expect,  but  I  kind  of  hate  eating  alone.  And 
then,  I  can  leave  the  store  more  'n  I  used  to.  Got 
a  new  prescription  clerk.  Smart  young  feller. 
Knows  his  job.  That's  how  I  was  able  to  take 
this  trip.  But  by  next  Monday  I'll  be  back  at 
the  old  grind,  I  suppose." 

"You — you'll  have  something  to  tell  them, 
won't  you?"  she  asks. 

"Eh?  "says  Oscar. 

"About  me,"  says  she. 

"All  that  I'll  ever  tell  'em  is  what  they've 
heard,"  says  he,  "and  that  is  to  keep  their 
tongues  off'm  you." 

"What  a  loyal  old  silly  you  are!"  says  Gwen- 
dolyn. "Were  you  thinking  I  might  come  back 
sometime?" 

Oscar  poked  the  cigar  ashes  around  in  his 
saucer  with  the  end  of  his  unlighted  cigar  and 
dropped  his  eyes  bashful.  "I  kinda  hoped  you 
might,"  says  he.  "I— I—" 

"Well?"  she  urges. 

"You'd  laugh,"  says  he. 

188 


WHAT  INEZ  MISSED  OUT  ON 

"No.  I  promise,"  says  she.  "Go  on.  You 
what?" 

"I  even  prayed  you  would,"  says  he,  his  voice 
breaking  in  an  absurd  crack  and  his  chin  drop- 
ping still  lower. 

Gwendolyn  didn't  laugh.  She  was  biting  her 
under  lip  nervous  and  gripping  her  left  hand 
with  her  right.  "Fancy  that!"  says  she.  "And 
you  never  were  much  at  praying,  Oscar." 

"No,"  says  he.  "Nor  at  anything  else,  ex- 
cept running  a  drug  store.  I  didn't  think  it 
would  do  any  good,  either,  but  I — I  couldn't 
help—" 

"You're  mistaken,  Oscar,"  says  Gwendolyn. 
"It's  worked." 

"What!"  says  he.     "You  don't  mean—" 

"Yes,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "I'm  coming  back. 
I  think  I  can  express  myself  better  in  cooking 
spaghetti  for  you  than  in  any  other  way  I've 
tried.  Anyway,  that's  the  program.  What  I 
shall  do  with  this  place  here  I  don't  know.  We'll 
have  to  talk  that  over.  But  I'm  coming." 

And  you  should  have  seen  the  beaming  ex- 
pression on  Oscar's  moon  face.  "Glory  be!" 
says  he,  reaching  across  the  table  for  one  of 
Gwendolyn's  hands. 

"Not  yet,"  says  she.  "Wait  until  I  send  home 
these  two  girls  before  they're  thoroughly  shocked. 
Forgive  me,  Trilby  May.  I  didn't  imagine  we 

189 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

should  get  in  as  deep  as  this.  Explain  it  all  to 
Inez,  will  you?" 

"That's  some  proposition,"  says  I.  "Look 
how  excited  she  is." 

For,  as  usual  at  this  hour  of  night,  Inez  is 
yawning  between  yanks  on  the  gum.  And  by 
the  time  I'd  woke  her  up  and  we'd  got  into  our 
street  clothes  the  reunion  was  well  under  way. 
As  we  left,  Gwendolyn  and  Oscar  were  sitting 
cozy  in  a  corner,  chatting  away  confidential. 

"Darn!"  says  I,  after  we'd  closed  the  door. 

"Who  that  guy?"  asks  Inez.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"I'll  give  you  the  tragic  details  in  the  morning, 
Inez,"  says  I.  "But  it  looks  like  you'd  chewed 
your  way  through  another  job." 


Chapter  XI 
Trilby  and  the  Trick  Uncle 

"  T  OOK,  Inez,"  says  I,  as  we  wandered  back 
•*-*  to  Miss  Wellby's  prunery  late  that  night 
after  the  lady  boss  of  our  Greenwich  Village 
joint  had  announced  that  she  meant  to  sell  out 
and  go  back  to  Michigan  with  the  druggist  hubby 
I'd  discovered  for  her.  "See  who's  waiting  for 
you  on  the  front  steps." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  who's  been  dragging  her 
heels  all  the  way  from  the  L  station.  "That 
newspaper  feller?" 

"None  other,"  says  I.  "Barry  Platt,  the  con- 
stant knight  of  the  clicking  Corona.  And  he's 
waiting  patiently,  poor  chap,  for  a  few  kind  words 
from  you." 

"Poor  boob!"  says  Inez.    "I — I'm  sleepy." 

So,  while  the  lady  of  his  heart's  desire  yawned 
her  way  past  him,  I  had  to  park  myself  alongside 
of  Barry  and  be  as  comforting  as  I  knew  how. 
I'll  say  I'm  not  so  poor  at  it,  even  if  nobody  else 
tells  you.  Course,  I  could  do  better  with  the 
stage  setting  a  little  more  romantic  than  the 

191 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

brownstone  steps  of  a  West  Fifty-seventh  Street 
boarding  house.  But  at  that,  with  Ruby  giggling 
at  the  basement  door  to  an  admiring  bell  hop 
who  has  fallen  for  her  dusky  charms;  and  Miss 
Smithers,  the  old-maid  stenog,  stretching  an 
ear  from  the  second-floor  hall  bedroom  just  above; 
and  an  audience  of  maybe  half  a  hundred  apart- 
ment house  dwellers  staring  across  the  street — 
Well,  I  didn't  get  stage  fright,  anyway. 

"You're  late  to-night,  Trilby  May,"  says 
Barry. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  know  that,  Barry  boy," 
says  I. 

"Oh,  I  keep  track  of — of  you  both,"  says  he. 
"Must  have  been  a  big  evening  at  the  'Cave  of 
the  White  Goddess'?" 

"Not  so  much  big,"  says  I,  "as — lemme  see, 
what's  the  word  ?  I  got  it !  Crucial." 

"Whaddye  mean,  crucial?"  asks  Barry. 

"Another  crossroads,"  says  I.  "Looks  like  our 
career  in  the  Village  had  come  to  a  full  stop.  In 
other  words,  Barry,  I'm  afraid  we're  overboard 
again." 

Then  I  sketched  out  for  him  how  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine,  after  a  year  of  wandering  up  and  down 
and  trying  out  various  schemes  for  self-expres- 
sion, had  decided  to  quit  and  go  back  with  her 
moon-faced  Oscar  to  Main  Street,  Michigan. 

"Just  when  the  place  was  making  a  big  hit," 
192 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

says  I,  "and  we  were  getting  the  hang  of  the 
business.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  shall  always  feel 
that  I  talked  myself  out  of  it.  You  see,  if  I 
hadn't  allowed  this  tank-town  druggist  to  get 
chatty  and  tell  me  the  story  of  his  life,  he'd 
never  found  out  that  it  was  his  dear  Gwendolyn 
who  cooked  the  spaghetti.  But  I  did.  I  even 
egged  on  the  get-together.  So  the  ship  is 
scuttled." 

"But  what  will  she  do  with  the  place?"  de- 
mands Barry. 

"Oh,  most  likely  she'll  sell  out  at  a  bargain  to 
some  third  cousin  of  Caruso,"  says  I,  "or  else 
call  in  a  second-hand  man  and  just  close  up. 
Either  way  we're  thrown  for  a  loss." 

"Now,  don't  you  worry,"  says  Barry  Platt, 
smoothing  the  back  of  my  right  hand  cheerful. 

"Go  on,  hold  it  if  you  feel  that  way,"  says  I. 
"I  promise  not  to  wake  Inez  up  and  bulletin  the 
fact  if  you  do.  Attaboy!  Comes  easier  when 
you  can't  see  me  so  plain,  doesn't  it?  No,  I 
don't  mind  a  bit.  It's  good  for  my  shy  nature 
to  get  a  jolt  like  that  once  in  awhile.  And  as 
for  worrying,  that's  the  seldomest  thing  I  do, 
Barry.  Inez  and  I  haven't  any  schedule  to  make. 
We're  just  on  our  way,  flitting  from  job  to  job 
like  a  pair  of  carefree  humming  birds  who  have 
forgotten  which  bush  they  started  to  build  a 
nest  in  last.  That's  us.  And  before  we  get  to 

193 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

the  hunger  point  times  will  have  to  be  so  hard 
that  there  '11  be  free  soup  kitchens  in  every 
block." 

At  that  Barry  actually  squeezed  my  hand. 
"You're  a  great  team,  you  and  Inez,"  says  he. 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "Inez  is  the  sleeping  partner. 
Good  night,  Barry." 

He's  a  nice,  fair-haired  youth,  Barry;  I  like 
the  polite  little  tricks  he  pulls,  showing  that  he's 
been  brought  up  in  a  real  home  by  a  real  mother; 
and  I'm  strong  for  the  hesitating  way  he  springs 
that  chummy  smile  of  his  when  he's  about  to 
say  or  do  something  that  would  be  fresh  in  any- 
one else.  Also,  I  suspect  there's  a  lot  of  real 
thinking  goes  on  back  of  those  sunny  blue  eyes 
of  his.  But  why  should  I  waste  perfectly  good 
slumber  hours  on  a  young  hick  who  can't  see  me 
except  as  sort  of  a  trailer  to  an  oversized  Swede 
girl  that's  long  on  curves  and  complexion  but 
whose  chief  mental  trait  is  a  passion  for  gum? 

Ever  since  Barry  helped  us  stage  that  little 
dinner  party  for  Inez's  elusive  Uncle  Nels, 
though,  he  has  seemed  to  declare  himself  in  as 
one  of  us;  not  merely  as  a  casual  friend,  but  as 
volunteer  guide  and  counselor.  Maybe  he  felt 
kind  of  guilty  for  scaring  off  the  tightwad  uncle 
the  way  we  did  at  that  roof-garden  blow.  Any- 
way, he  never  fails  to  look  us  up  at  least  once  a 
day  and  get  a  report  on  how  things  are  coming. 

194 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

Actually  seems  interested,  which  is  more  or  less 
soothing,  when  there  are  so  few  who  hardly  know 
you  exist. 

So  next  morning,  when  I  broke  the  sad  news  to 
Inez,  at  breakfast,  that  we'd  probably  be  at 
liberty  again  by  night,  and  she'd  asked  what  I 
was  going  to  do  about  it,  I  told  her  that  I  couldn't 
say  until  we'd  been  really  let  go  and  I'd  had  a 
talk  with  Barry. 

"Him!"  says  Inez,  shrugging  her  wide  shoul- 
ders. "Lotta  good  he'll  be." 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "But  at  least  he'll  listen  to 
our  troubles." 

And  when  we  reported  earlier  than  usual  at 
the  "Cave,"  things  did  look  as  uncertain  as  I'd 
expected.  Even  more  so.  Mrs.  Tremaine  was 
excited  and  fluttery. 

"Oscar's  a  regular  old  dear,"  says  she.  "I  don't 
know  how  I  should  ever  have  managed  without 
him.  He's  been  out  to  see  some  cafe  agents,  and 
has  two  customers  who  are  coming  around  this 
evening.  One  of  them  is  a  Hungarian  who  man- 
ages three  other  places  uptown  and  has  been 
looking  for  a  good  buy  in  the  Village.  Oscar 
thinks  he's  sure  to  make  some  kind  of  an  offer 
that  I  can  accept." 

"That  '11  be  nice,"  says  I.  "A  Hungarian,  eh? 
And  he'll  probably  put  in  a  jazz  orchestra,  and 
feature  goulash  on  the  menu,  with  Inez  and  me 

I9S 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

retired  in  favor  of  an  old  girl  who  will  wear  big 
gold  hoops  in  her  ears,  and  a  squad  of  pie- 
faced  heroes  who've  just  drifted  in  from  Czecho- 
Slovia." 

"I'm  sorry,  Trilby  May,"  says  Gwendolyn. 
"We  were  doing  so  well  here,  too.  But  you 
understand,  I'm  sure." 

"Oh  yes,"  says  I.  "You've  heard  the  call  of 
Main  Street  again.  And  there's  the  new  sleeping 
porch  over  the  drug  store,  and  the  revised  bath- 
room, not  to  mention  a  lonesome  hubby  who 
wants  to  lead  you  back.  I  don't  blame  you  a 
bit.  Grab  him.  They're  not  all  like  that,  I  hear, 
and  my  guess  is  that  yours  is  worth  another  try. 
But  what  about  to-night?  Business  as  usual?" 

"Very  much  so,"  says  Gwendolyn.  "In  fact, 
I  have  sent  word  to  a  number  of  my  old  regulars 
that  I'd  like  to  have  them  come  this  evening  as 
my  guests." 

"Going  to  paper  the  house,  eh?"  says  I. 
"Ought  to  be  something  in  that,  too.  And  if  it 
works  our  finale  should  be  a  busy  one." 

It  was  all  of  that.  The  parties  began  trickling 
in  through  the  alley  before  six-thirty,  and  by 
seven-thirty  we  were  playing  to  capacity  and 
giving  'em  hot  spoons  for  their  ice  cream  and 
damp  napkins  for  their  knees.  Eh?  Well,  when- 
ever you  get  hot  silver  in  a  restaurant  you  may 
know  that  the  supply  isn't  equal  to  the  demand 

196 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

and  that  the  dish-washing  machine  is  being 
speeded  up.  The  soggy  napkins  we  had  deliv- 
ered on  a  hurry  call  from  the  laundry  in  the  next 
block. 

It  was  lucky  that  Madam  Hortense,  the  French 
war  widow  who  does  most  of  our  cooking,  had 
recovered  from  her  toothache  attack  of  the  night 
before  and  was  on  the  job  again,  for  Gwendolyn 
never  could  have  stood  the  strain.  Besides,  this 
was  onion  soup  night,  and  that's  a  confection 
that  simply  must  be  made  by  a  person  who  can 
call  it  potagf  a  I'ognon,  to  have  it  taste  right. 
Hortense  must  have  spread  herself  on  this  par- 
ticular task,  too,  for  a  bunch  of  real  artists  got 
so  enthusiastic  over  it  that  they  blew  kisses 
toward  the  kitchen  door.  I  wish  they  could  have 
had  a  glimpse  of  Madam  Hortense,  though.  She's 
about  as  wide  as  she  is  high,  has  ankles  like  the 
leg  of  a  billiard  table,  and  shaves  every  Sunday. 

It  was  one  of  the  best  crowds  we've  had,  from 
an  artistic  and  tipping  standpoint.  Besides,  the 
usual  run  of  two-room  meal  hunters  there  was 
one  real  poet  in  a  khaki  shirt  and  brown  corduroy 
pants,  a  fair  sprinkling  of  bobbed-haired  girls 
from  near-by  studios,  and  a  table  full  of  society 
slummers  in  evening  dress  who  brought  their 
own  Martinis  in  a  silver  teapot.  You  know? 
It  was  the  kind  of  gathering  that  makes  the 

strays  from  Utica  and  Lacrosse  sure  that  they're 

197 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

seeing  life  as  it  is  advertised  in  the  Sunday  papers. 
Anyway,  with  five  courses  to  serve,  it  kept  Gwen- 
dolyn and  Rosa  and  me  on  the  jump  for  nearly 
three  hours,  without  much  let-up. 

So  it  was  late  in  the  evening  before  I  had  time 
to  take  much  notice  of  this  old  boy  who  was 
sitting  back  at  a  little  corner  table  with  Oscar, 
the  druggist  hubby,  and  Barry  Platt.  He  hadn't 
been  in  for  dinner,  but  had  joined  them  later, 
and  Gwendolyn  had  given  him  a  demi-tasse  with 
his  cigar.  I  don't  know  as  I  should  have  looked 
at  him  very  close  even  then  if  I  hadn't  seen 
Barry  introducing  him  to  Mrs.  Tremaine.  And 
soon  after  that  Gwendolyn  comes  over  to  where 
I'm  checking  up  a  dinner  bill  with  Inez,  and 
announces,  triumphant: 

"Well,  it's  all  settled,  girls.    The  place  is  sold ! " 

"To  the  goulish  magnate?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  she.  "Oscar  found  some  one  who 
overbid  the  Hungarian.  That  is  the  new  pro- 
prietor, over  there." 

"The  one  with  the  water  curl  in  his  raven 
locks?"  says  I.  "There  isn't  much  of  him  but 
hair,  is  there?  Looks  kind  of  shrunk  and  dried 
up,  especially  about  the  neck  and  shoulders.  But 
I  suppose  he  knows  all  about  the  restaurant 
business?" 

"I  don't  believe  he  does,"  says  Gwendolyn. 
"I  understand  he  is  to  turn  over  the  'Cave'  to  a 

198 


<    d. 
co    W 


w   < 

ffi    OS 
H    W 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

relative  to  manage  for  him.  They're  signing  the 
papers  now." 

"Then  you  can't  tell  whether  or  not  we  go  as 
part  of  the  fixtures,  eh?"  I  asks. 

Gwendolyn  winks  at  me  mysterious.  "When 
there's  a  change  of  owners,"  says  she,  "one  never 
knows  what  may  happen.  Perhaps  something 
very  nice." 

"Not  with  that  kind  of  hair,"  says  I.  "My 
hunch  is  that  Inez  and  I  had  better  write  out  our 
resignations  now." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  about  that," 
says  Gwendolyn,  smiling  contented.  "Oscar  says 
he's  quite  an  odd  character,  the  new  proprietor. 
If  I  were  you  I'd  just  wait  and  see;  I  would, 
really." 

"Say,  you're  getting  me  curious,"  says  I. 
"Who  is  this  mysterious  stranger,  anyway?  I 
think  I'll  go  get  a  close-up  of  him." 

"No,  no!"  breaks  in  Gwendolyn.  "I— I 
wouldn't." 

But  I'd  already  started,  and  before  the  trio  in 
the  corner  knew  it  I  was  standing  over  the  table. 
Barry  spots  me  first  and  jumps  up  hasty,  as  if 
he  was  trying  to  block  me  off. 

"We  don't  need  a  thing,  thanks,"  says  he. 
"Not  a  thing,  Trilby  May." 

"No?"  says  I. 

I'd  managed  to  get  a  front  view,  though,  and 
14  199 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

in  spite  of  the  big  smoked  glasses  the  new  boss 
was  wearing  there  was  something  familiar  about 
the  high-colored  nose  with  the  peaked  end  and 
the  narrow,  sagging  shoulders.  Also,  where  had 
I  seen  those  ruddy,  wrinkled  cheeks,  before  ?  But 
the  black,  wavy  hair,  puzzled  me  most. 

"We'll  be  through  here  in  just  a  moment," 
urges  Barry,  sort  of  waving  me  off. 

"Sorry,"  says  I.  "Orders  are  to  crumb  the 
table." 

With  that  I  edged  past  him  and  got  busy  with 
a  napkin.  The  stranger  had  just  laid  down  his 
fountain  pen,  and  it  was  easy  to  brush  it  on  to 
the  floor.  Then  we  both  made  a  dive  for  it,  and 
some  way  the  little  pins  that  fasten  my  white 
cuffs  got  caught  in  the  dark  locks,  and  I  was 
prompted  to  jerk  my  arm  up  at  just  the  right 
moment.  Even  at  that  I  had  to  gasp  at  the  re- 
sult. It  was  removable  hair.  A  wig!  And  when 
it  was  lifted  there  was  a  sandy,  grizzled  head 
that  I'd  seen  several  times  before. 

"Why,  Uncle  Nels!"  says  I. 

He  don't  seem  embarrassed  or  ashamed  at 
having  been  scalped  in  public  that  way.  He 
just  acts  peeved. 

"There!"  says  he.  "Didn't  I  tell  you?  Such 
foolishness.  Here!  Put  it  away."  At  which  he 
snatches  the  wig  and  tosses  it  at  Barry  Platt. 

And  I  must  say  that  I  never  saw  Barry  look 
200 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

quite  so  foolish  as  when  the  thing  lands  in  his 
lap.  "I  suppose  I  might  have  known  I  couldn't 
put  anything  over  on  you,  Trilby  May,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  says  I.  "But  it 
wasn't  such  a  subtle  disguise,  Barry.  Now,  if 
you'd  picked  out  a  white  wig — " 

"It  wasn't  a  case  of  picking,"  says  he.  "I 
just  happened  to  have  this  one  in  my  trunk. 
Besides,  I  wasn't  sure  I  could  get  him  to  wear  it 
in  here.  Don't  you  see?" 

"I  can  follow  you  that  far,"  says  I.  "But 
why  the  masquerade  at  all?" 

Barry  hesitates  and  glances  at  Uncle  Nels. 
"Shall  we  tell  her  now?"  he  asks. 

Uncle  Nels  sheds  the  smoked  glasses  and  nods. 

"Well,"  goes  on  Barry,  "it  was  this  way.  He 
had  heard  that  you  and  Inez  were  here  and  that 
the  place  was  to  be  sold.  So  he  thought  he'd  buy 
it  for  Inez  and  let  you  two  run  it.  But  he  didn't 
mean  to  have  either  of  you  know  who  was  doing 
it." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "How  did  he  expect  to  keep 
it  from  us?" 

"Why,"  says  Barry,  "he — he  was  going  to  do 
it  through  me." 

"As  an  anonymous  friend,  eh?"  says  I. 
"Barry,  you're  a  great  little  schemer.  And  you 
brought  him  right  in  here  to  settle  up  the  deal, 
did  you?" 

201 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  thought  it  would  be  rather  good  fun,"  says 
he. 

"Well,  is  it  all  fixed?"     I  demands. 

"Complete,"  says  Barry.  "Here  are  the 
papers." 

"Wait  until  I  tell  Inez,"  says  I.  "She  ought 
to  be  in  on  the  celebration." 

Of  course  she  hasn't  noticed  anything  unusual 
going  on  over  in  the  corner.  Inez  never  does. 
Nothing  less  than  an  earthquake,  or  having  Bill 
Hart  ride  in  and  begin  shooting  out  the  electric 
bulbs,  would  seriously  disturb  that  placid  poise 
of  hers,  especially  when  she's  been  without  her 
gum  for  three  hours  and  has  just  sneaked  in  a 
fresh  cud.  So  I  finds  her  sitting  there  calm  and 
regal  in  her  White  Goddess  costume,  staring 
peaceful  at  the  cash  register. 

"Come  out  of  it,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Guess  who's 
shown  up  again." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez.     "Who?" 

"That  dehydrated  uncle  of  yours,"  says  I. 

"Uncle  Nels?"  says  she. 

"The  very  one,"  says  I. 

"What  for  he  come?"  asks  Inez. 

"This  time,"  says  I,  "  his  role  seems  to  be 
that  of  an  off-season  Santa  Claus.  Listen  close, 
Inez,  and  be  careful  not  to  inhale  your  spear- 
mint when  I  slip  you  the  gladsome  details. 
Your  elusive  and  hard-boiled  uncle  has  had  the 

202 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

merry  little  notion  of  buying  this  place  for  us 
to  run.'* 

The  way  Inez  expresses  deep  and  violent  emo- 
tion is  by  opening  her  lips  slightly  and  letting  a 
flicker  of  almost  human  intelligence  come  into 
the  big  gray  eyes.  Unless  you're  watching  her 
close,  though,  you'll  miss  it  entirely.  But  I  knew 
the  symptoms  well.  I'm  an  authority  on  Inez. 
I  could  almost  write  a  book  on  her.  And  yet, 
her  mental  processes  are  always  surprising  to  me 
when  I  get  their  drift. 

"No,"  says  she.    "Not  Uncle  Nels." 

"I'll  admit  it  doesn't  seem  logical,"  says  I, 
"but  there  he  is,  over  there  with  Barry  and  Mr. 
Tremaine.  And  it's  all  settled.  Gwendolyn  and 
her  hubby  will  probably  beat  it  for  Michigan 
to-morrow,  and  the  joint  will  be  ours.  How's 
that  for  a  lucky  break  and  a  happy  ending?" 

"Swell,  hey?"  says  Inez,  making  a  dental  dis- 
play that  would  get  a  tooth  power  ad.  man  rush- 
ing for  a  camera.  "  He — he's  some  uncle ! " 

"By  unanimous  vote,"  says  I.  "We've  called 
him  an  old  tightwad,  and  a  trick  uncle,  and 
things  like  that,  but  I  hereby  move  that  those 
words  be  stricken  from  the  record.  The  ayes 
have  it.  Three  cheers  for  Uncle  Nels." 

Inez  has  quit  smiling,  though,  and  gone 
thoughtful  again.  "How — how  he  know  we  are 
here?"  she  asks. 

203 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Hm-m-m!"  says  I,  resting  one  hand  on  my 
hip  and  propping  up  my  chin  with  the  other. 
"As  usual,  Inez,  your  single-track  mind  has  led 
straight  to  the  blind  switch.  But  that's  a  point 
we'll  take  up  later.  I  must  bring  Uncle  Nels 
over  and  let  him  see  how  easy  you  are  to  look  at 
in  your  Goddess  get-up." 

"All  right,"  says  Inez,  giving  it  the  Minnesota 
inflection. 

And  when  I  asked  Uncle  Nels  if  he  didn't  want 
to  come  and  see  his  niece  that  he's  been  so  kind 
and  generous  to,  he  grunts  that  he  would. 

"She's  by  the  kitchen,  Inez?"  he  asks. 

"What  an  odd  conceit!"  says  I.  "Why  should 
you  think  Inez  would  be  in  the  kitchen?" 

"Well,  she's  the  cook  here,  ain't  she?"  he  asks. 

"Cook!"  says  I.  "Inez!  Say,  don't  make  me 
laugh  when  I've  just  had  my  hair  curled.  WThy, 
Inez  couldn't  qualify  as  cook  at  a  Girl  Scout's 
bacon  bat,  and  she'd  be  the  first  to  deny  it." 

Uncle  Nels  seems  disappointed.  "What — 
what  she  do,  then?"  he  demands. 

"Do  you  mean  you  didn't  recognize  her?" 
says  I,  "or  was  it  that  Barry  smuggled  you  in 
here  in  such  a  hurry  that  you  had  no  chance  to 
look  around?  Anyway,  if  you'll  swing  to  the 
left  you'll  see  Inez.  That's  it!  That's  her  on  the 
throne  effect,  in  all  the  white  satin  and  pearls." 

Uncle  Nels  took  a  good  long  look  before  the 
204 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

dazed  expression  crept  into  his  faded  eyes.  For 
even  when  she's  sitting  at  ease,  yanking  her  gum, 
Inez  looms  up  dazzling  and  impressive.  As  the 
White  Goddess  she  certainly  is  in  a  class  by  her- 
self. It  would  be  hard  to  find  anyone  who  could 
look  more  spotless  or  more  goddessy.  But  I 
doubt  if  Uncle  Nels  is  a  judge  of  such  types. 

"Huh!"  he  snorts.  "That  all  she  does — chew 
gum?" 

"Oh,  that's  just  her  side  line,  says  I.  "Inci- 
dentally, too,  she's  the  cashier;  but  her  main 
job  is  to  give  us  a  good  excuse  for  the  name  of 
the  place  and  to  supply  the  local  color." 

"No — no  other  work?"  he  asks. 

"Oh,  a  little  emergency  dish  washing  now  and 
then,"  says  I. 

Uncle  Nels  shakes  his  head.  "Girls  should 
work,"  says  he.  "At  home  she  did  it,  plenty. 
She  had  to  scrub  floors,  and  hoe  potatoes,  and 
do  the  wash." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  says  I.  "And  she  had  to  chop 
wood  and  feed  the  pigs  and  milk  eight  cows  and 
make  butter.  She's  told  me  about  that,  and  how 
her  old  man  used  to  persuade  her  with  a  rake 
handle.  That's  why  she  quit  and  went  off  hunt- 
ing for  the  rich  uncle  she'd  heard  her  folks  talk- 
ing about." 

"Me?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "I  ain't  rich;  I'm 
just  foolish.  Buying  a  place  like  this!  I  can't 

205 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

afford  it.  Mister  Platt,  you  show  me  them  papers 
again." 

But  Barry's  a  smooth  youth.  He  pretends  not 
to  see  the  hand  that's  held  out  eager.  "I'll  do 
better  than  that,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  he.  "I'll 
send  you  copies  of  them  to-morrow.  And  you 
know  what  I  told  you  about  how  good  an  in- 
vestment this  was?  You  wait!  By  fall  you  and 
the  girls  will  be  coining  money  here,  simply 
coining  it." 

Uncle  Nels  eyes  him  steady  for  a  minute  with 
a  suspicious  squint,  but  then  he  gives  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders.  "Well,"  says  he,  "what's  done 
is  done.  But  it's  a  loss  having  an  expensive  girl 
like  that  loafing  around;  a  dead  loss.  And  I'll 
make  up  no  bad  debts.  Understand?" 

He  has  started  for  the  door,  still  shaking  his 
head  and  growling,  when  I  calls  to  him.  "Say, 
Uncle  Nels,  are  you  going  to  run  off  without 
having  a  word  with  your  favorite  niece?" 

"Bah!"  says  he.  "My  expensive  niece,  that's 
what  she  is."  And  he  bangs  the  door  after  him. 

"What  a  dear  old  uncle!"  says  I.  "Lucky 
Inez  isn't  sensitive.  See?  She  heard  that  with- 
out batting  an  eye." 

"She's  a  perfect  brick,  isn't  she?"  says  Barry. 

"In  some  ways,"  says  I.  "But  just  a  second, 
Barry.  Where  did  you  dig  up  Uncle  Nels  again 
at  such  a  timely  hour  and  on  such  short  notice?" 

206 


TRILBY  AND  THE  TRICK  UNCLE 

<s  a '     -«?  -v 

"Why,"  says  he,  scraping  his  foot,  "I — I  hap- 
pened to  run  across  him." 

"Yes,  you  did!"  says  I.  "Come,  now!  Uncle 
Nels  had  disappeared.  You  s^id  so  yourself. 
He'd  moved  from  where  he  was  living,  early  one 
morning,  without  leaving  any  address.  And  I 
know  he's  too  foxy  an  old  boy  to  let  anyone  just 
happen  to  run  across  him." 

"Well?"  says  Barry,  with  his  chin  still  down. 

"You've  been  in  touch  with  him  all  along, 
haven't  you  ? "  says  I.  "  Been  keeping  him  posted 
on  where  we  were  and  what  we  were  doing? 
Eh?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  says  Barry,  falling  back 
on  that  chummy  smile  of  his.  "You'd  get  hep 
to  anything,  Trilby  May.  But  he  isn't  such  an 
old  grouch  as  he  seems.  Honest.  And  I  believe 
he's  rather  strong  for  Inez,  and  you,  too.  Only 
he  has  his  own  ideas  and  needs  a  lot  of  humoring)" 

"Very  well,"  says  I.  "We'll  humor  him,  in 
our  own  way.  I've  never  tackled  the  job  of 
running  a  rubberneck  joint  before,  but  if  a  lot 
of  these  low-brow  foreigners  can  make  a  go  of 
their  places,  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  do  as  well 
with  this.  Anyway,  we've  got  a  fair  start." 

"Thanks  to  Uncle  Nels,"  puts  in  Barry. 

"Maybe,"  I  admits.  "But  I  still  insist  that 
he's  a  trick  uncle." 


Chapter  XII 
Inez  Finds  a  Flapper  Hound 

AS  I  was  telling  Inez  only  yesterday,  there 
**  is  some  use  in  having  a  rich  uncle,  after 
all,  even  if  he  is  one  of  the  disappearing  kind. 
For  there  we  were  just  on  the  brink,  as  you  might 
say,  of  a  financial  crash,  when  up  bobs  her  uncle 
Nels,  buys  this  Greenwich  Village  joint  outright, 
and  turns  us  loose  with  it.  That's  service,  I'll 
say.  Course,  he  walks  out  on  us  before  anyone 
could  even  kiss  him  on  his  bald  spot,  but  being 
co-bosses  of  the  "Cave  of  the  White  Goddess"  is 
a  lot  better  than  having  'em  give  you  the  gate. 

And  then,  we  still  have  Barry  Platt.  Nothing 
elusive  or  inconstant  about  him.  I  don't  know 
just  how  important  this  newspaper  job  of  his  is, 
but  it  certainly  leaves  him  time  enough  to  drift 
in  here  for  an  hour  or  so  every  evening.  Not 
that  he  tries  to  mix  in  with  the  management,  or 
asks  to  paw  over  the  books,  or  criticizes  the 
menu.  No.  He  seems  content  to  slip  in  behind 
a  corner  table  and  feast  his  eyes  on  Inez  as  she 
sits  regal  back  of  the  cash  register. 

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INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

"How  about  it,  Barry?"  I  asked  last  night, 
"are  you  representing  Uncle  Nels  now,  or  is  this 
merely  a  social  visit?" 

"Oh,  quite  unofficial,"  says  he.  "You  don't 
mind,  do  you,  Trilby  May?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  says  I.  "In  fact,  it's  rather  cheer- 
ing to  have  you  drop  around." 

"  Business  still  seems  brisk,"  he  comments. 

"Picking  up  right  along,"  says  I.  "And  I 
thought  that  by  midsummer  it  would  slack  off. 
Where  all  these  folks  come  from  who  are  willing 
to  walk  through  a  back  alley  and  into  a  cellar 
to  pay  one  seventy-five  for  a  cold-storage  chicken 
and  spaghetti  dinner,  is  what  gets  me." 

"It's  the  publicity  from  those  raids  and  in- 
vestigations that  brings  'em,"  Barry  explains. 
"Why,  the  Village  has  been  advertised  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  and  whenever  a 
tourist  strikes  New  York  he  hunts  up  the  dis- 
trict and  comes  down  here,  expecting  to  see  all 
sorts  of  wicked  goings-on." 

"And  what  he  really  does  see,"  says  I,  "is  Inez. 
Eh?" 

Barry  pinks  up  in  the  ears  a  little  at  that.  "I 
suppose  some  of  these  birds  try  to  get  fresh  now 
and  then,  don't  they?" 

I  shrugs  my  shoulders.  "The  male  of  the 
species,  Barry,"  says  I,  "is  always  almost  more 
or  less  frisky  when  he's  away  from  home.  They 

209 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

even  have  the  nerve  to  chuck  me  under  the  chin 
when  I'm  serving  them.  But  I  get  even  by  adding 
a  quarter  cover  charge  to  the  bill,  and  if  necess- 
ary I  can  tell  'em  exactly  where  they  get  off." 

"I  know,  Trilby  May,"  says  he.  "You're  all 
right.  But — but  how  about  Ines?" 

"That's  a  worry  you  can  cross  off  at  the 
start,"  says  I.  "Of  course,  they  nearly  all  hand 
her  the  line  of  talk  they've  had  success  with 
before,  and  some  of  these  small-town  cut-ups  are 
fluent  kidders.  They  call  her  everything  from 
'sister'  to  *  sweetie,'  and  about  once  a  night  some 
mushy  widower  hints  how  he'd  like  to  steal  her 
for  his  very  own.  But  none  of  it  registers  with 
Inez.  She  displays  her  dimples  while  the  love 
barrage  is  on,  but  as  soon  as  they've  passed  by 
she  yawns  and  tries  to  remember  where  she 
parked  her  gum.  No,  Barry,  joshing  Inez  isn't 
a  profitable  pastime,  except  for  the  house;  and 
it  gets  'em  just  as  far  as  tickling  a  stone  lion  in 
the  ribs.  So  we  don't  need  to  fence  her  in  with 
an  iron  grill  or  anything  like  that." 

Barry  shakes  his  head,  though.  "I  hope  no 
one  tries  to  pull  any  rough  stuff  when  you  two 
are  alone  down  here,"  he  says. 

"I  trust  not,"  says  I,  "for  I'd  hate  to  see  Inez 
start  throwing  'em  around  while  she  was  wearing 
that  goddess  costume.  It  would  be  just  like  her 
to  forget." 

210 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

And  yet  it  wasn't  twenty  minutes  later  when  I 
noticed  this  dark-eyed  Adonis  with  the  wavy 
black  pompadour  and  the  cutie  mustachette, 
draping  himself  over  the  little  counter  and  whis- 
pering chatty  to  Inez.  Then  I  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  him  go  through  the  same  performance 
only  a  few  nights  before.  But  this  time  he  seems 
to  have  dressed  the  part  more  elaborately,  for 
he  has  on  a  braid-bound  cutaway  with  a  flower 
in  his  lapel,  and  he's  carrying  gloves  and  a  walk- 
ing stick.  Also,  he  is  presenting  Inez  with  a  real 
orchid.  As  she  is  ducking  her  chin  coy,  and 
doesn't  seem  to  be  trying  to  shunt  him  along  as 
usual,  I  drops  back  to  Barry's  table  and  nudges 
him. 

"Oh,  I've  seen  it  all,"  says  he.  "Who  is  this 
gay  bird?" 

"One  of  our  most  regulars,"  says  I.  "Must 
be  some  young  plute  who  has  strayed  down  from 
his  Fifth  Avenue  club." 

"Huh!"  says  Barry.  "More  likely  some  mem- 
ber of  the  ex-Service  Bartenders'  League  who's 
turned  booze  agent.  She  seems  to  be  falling  for 
him,  too." 

"Well,  he  has  got  romantic  orbs,"  says  I. 
"And  what  wonderful  hair!  Regular  crow  black, 
isn't  it?" 

"And  a  beak  like  a  buzzard,"  adds  Barry. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.    "Quite  a  striking 

211 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

profile,  I  should  say;  and  with  that  dead-white 
complexion  he  is  rather  distinguished  looking." 

"You  women!"  says  Barry.  "Any  floorwalker 
with  a  crimp  in  his  front  hair  and  a  cane  hung 
on  his  arm  gets  you.  Doesn't  register,  eh?  Say, 
look  what  he's  putting  over  now!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  dark  stranger  is  getting 
a  bit  free.  He  is  patting  Inez  on  the  arm,  and 
while  there's  a  good  deal  to  pat  that's  no  sign 
that  anybody  with  busy  ringers  is  welcome. 

"One  of  these  fast  workers,  I  take  it,"  says  I. 

"Only  say  the  word,  Trilby  May,"  explodes 
Barry,  "and  I'll  step  over  there  and  plant  a  half- 
arm  jolt  in  the  middle  of  his  pie-faced  map." 

"That's  real  hero  talk,  Barry,"  says  I,  "but 
it's  a  trifle  heady,  isn't  it?  He'd  make  nearly 
two  of  you.  Besides,  with  the  cops  so  snoopy, 
we  can't  afford  a  scene.  Keep  your  temperature 
down,  Barry,  and  let  me  do  the  crashing  in." 

"But  if  you  need  me,"  says  he,  "just  remem- 
ber that — " 

"Quite  so,"  says  I.  "The  light  artillery  in  re- 
serve. Meanwhile  watch  me  turn  this  ardent 
bonfire  into  a  mosquito  smudge." 

With  which  I  sidles  over  to  the  black  throne 
just  as  Inez  is  giving  her  active  admirer  a  come- 
on  roll  from  her  big  gray  eyes.  It  was  really  too 
bad  to  break  in  on  this  tender  scene,  for  it's  plain 
enough  that  at  last  Inez  has  met  in  real  life  the 

212 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

sort  of  movie-star  type  she's  always  talking 
about.  But  arm  patting  is  a  little  beyond  the 
limit;  at  least,  it  is  in  our  place.  And  a  table- 
ful of  summer-school  folks  from  the  Middle  West 
were  beginning  to  stare. 

"Excuse  me,  Inez,"  says  I,  "but  who's  your 
new  friend?" 

"Him?"  says  Inez,  getting  flushed  under  the 
eyes.  "He — he's  Mister  Roland." 

"Charmed,"  says  I.  "I'm  Trilby  May  Dodge. 
Pardon  me  for  edging  in,  but  I  noticed  you  try- 
ing to  get  acquainted  with  Inez,  and  I  didn't 
know  but  you  might  need  a  little  help." 

"Thanks,"  says  Roland.  "We're  getting  on 
rather  well." 

"From  a  standing  start,  I  should  say  you 
were,"  says  I.  "Orchids  as  a  curtain  raiser,  eh?" 

"For  one  so  lovely  as  Miss  Inez,"  says  he, 
"it's  a  poor  thing  to  give." 

"Not  so  badly  put,  either,"  says  I.  "Been 
feeding  her  much  like  that,  have  you?" 

"When  one  beholds  cheeks  like  the  rose  leaf 
and  eyes  like  sad  stars  at  dawn,"  says  Roland, 
"one  has  the  eloquence  of  a  poet.  Not  that  I 
am  such,  but  I  have  the  feeling — here,"  and  he 
thumps  himself  on  the  chest  about  over  the  left- 
hand  upper  vest  pocket. 

"Anyway,"  says  I,  "it's  nice  of  you  to  men- 
tion it.  And  it  all  leads  up  to  what  may  I  ask?" 

213 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  would  give  myself  the  pleasure,"  says  he, 
"of  taking  Miss  Inez  to  the  theater,  with  perhaps 
a  little  supper  after." 

"Say,  you  are  some  speed  artist,  aren't  you?" 
says  I.  "But  back  up,  Roland.  You're  running 
past  your  signals." 

"Excuse?"  says  he,  lifting  his  heavy  eye- 
brows. 

"Nothing  doing,"  says  I.    "Get  that?" 

"But  I  am  sure  Miss  Inez  understands,"  says 
he.  "Is  it  not  so,  ma  belle  cherie?" 

"Who  told  you  she  was  your  cherry?"  says  I. 

"Ah,  but  listen,"  he  protests.  "She  is  about 
to  say  that  she  will  go.  Eh,  my  dear  Inez  ?  Tell 
your  friend  that  you  have  trust  in  me.  Yes?" 

And  with  that  he  reaches  out  to  begin  the  arm 
patting  again.  But  I  blocked  him  a  sharp  elbow. 

"Say,  but  you  have  got  the  most  restless 
hands!"  says  I.  "Put  'em  up,  stow  'em  in  your 
pockets  if  you  can't  make  them  behave.  Who 
are  you,  anyway?  Roland  what?" 

He  hunches  his  shoulders  and  laughs.  "For- 
give," says  he.  "The  skin  of  satin  tempts,  and 
I  forget.  As  for  who  I  am — well,  I  am  in  busi- 
ness on  Broadway.  For  the  present  the  charm- 
ing Miss  Inez  knows  me  only  as  Roland.  Some- 
time very  soon,  I  hope,  I  shall  tell  her  all  about 
myself.  That  will  be  a  happy  moment  for  me. 
Ah  yes!  Meanwhile  we  must  get  acquainted, 

214 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

and  how  is  it  to  be  done  here?  Not  at  all.  So 
you  see  that  the  theater,  the  little  supper,  the 
drive  through  the  park,  are  of  necessity  for  us. 
You  would  like  it — eh,  Inez?" 

"Swell,"  says  Inez. 

"There!  "says  he.    "You  observe?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I.  "Looks  very  much  as 
though  you'd  made  the  grade  with  Inez.  But  I 
guess  you've  overlooked  me,  haven't  you?" 

"You?"  says  he,  staring. 

"I'm  the  other  half  of  the  sketch,"  says  I, 
"and  we  always  travel  double.  Of  course,  it's 
sweet  of  you  to  want  to  make  it  a  three-handed 
party;  but  entertaining  the  tired  business 
stranger  after  hours  isn't  quite  in  my  line.  Sorry 
to  hurry  you,  but  you'll  find  the  main  exit  over 
at  the  left,  Roland." 

For  a  second  or  so  he  gawped  at  me,  surprised 
and  a  bit  scornful.  Maybe  he  didn't  expect  such 
a  bump  from  a  mere  waitress  with  bobbed  hair 
and  gooseberry-green  eyes.  But  he  recovers 
well.  He  gives  me  an  easy  laugh  and  spreads 
his  hands  eloquent  They're  white,  soft-looking 
hands,  with  the  nails  manicured  like  a  leading 
lady's. 

"There,    there,    girlie!"    says    he,    soothing. 

"Don't  worry  about  your  friend.    With  me  she 

will  be  as  safe  as  at  home.    I  am  a  man  of  honor 

and  standing.     But  when  I  admire  a  lovely  lady 

15  215 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

and  she  does  me  the  favor  of  accepting  my  in- 
vitation, I  allow  no  one  to  obstruct.  No  one." 

And  he  shoved  out  his  well-scraped  jaw  as  he 
said  it. 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Think  you're  one  of  these  go- 
getters,  do  you?  Well,  here's  where  you  skid." 

"We  shall  see,"  says  he.  "Come,  Miss  Inez, 
we  will  depart  at  once." 

"Inez,  sit  still,"  says  I. 

"Aw,  don't  be  a  crab!"  says  Inez.  "I  like  to 
go.  This  once." 

"No,"  says  I. 

"Pooh!"  says  Roland,  grabbing  Inez  by  the 
arm.  "Never  mind  her.  By  the  time  you  have 
changed  the  taxi  will  be  waiting.  Come!" 

"Say,  if  you  will  pull  down  trouble,  don't  say 
I  didn't  warn  you,"  says  I,  as  I  turns  to  give 
Barry  Platt  the  nod. 

And  Barry  was  already  on  his  toes  for  the  start. 
In  three  jumps  he  was  among  those  present,  and 
with  the  sparks  flying  from  his  light-blue  eyes  he 
did  look  more  or  less  hostile. 

But  Roland,  the  six-cylinder  Romeo,  who  tops 
him  by  more  than  a  head,  glances  down  at  Barry 
with  easy  contempt.  "PoufF!"  says  he.  "For 
such  as  him  I  care  not  that,"  and  he  snaps  his 
fingers. 

"S-s-s-sh!"  says  I.  "Don't  get  reckless,  Ro- 
land. He's  Kid  Platt,  the  light-weight  champ, 

216 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

and  two  of  his  punches  would  send  you  to  a  white 
iron  cot  in  the  casualty  ward." 

"Wha-at!"  he  gasps.    "A— a  box  fighter?" 

I  nods  careless.  "The  fightingest  box  fighter 
you  ever  met,"  says  I.  "He  may  not  look  it, 
but  oh,  boy!  what  a  wallop!  Biff,  bang!  And 
there  they  are,  laid  out  flat,  waiting  for  the 
stretcher.  Sometimes  he's  messy  about  it,  too; 
smashes  'em  in  the  eye,  dislocates  a  nose,  or  jars 
loose  an  ear.  They're  never  the  same  afterwards. 
Have  to  be  sewed  up.  So  don't  rouse  him." 

When  I  have  to  throw  a  bluff  I  don't  believe 
in  skimping  the  details.  And  I  must  have  made 
'em  kind  of  vivid,  for  that  bluish  jaw  of  Roland's 
goes  saggy  and  his  eyes  get  bugged.  I  suppose 
he  was  seeing  himself  all  mussed  up  and  gory, 
and  his  cutaway  coat  ripped  up  the  back.  And 
just  then  Inez  has  to  horn  in  with  the  rebuttal 
stuff. 

"How  foolish!"  says  she.  "That  Barry  he's 
only  newspaper  reporter." 

"Oh-ho!"  says  Roland,  reviving. 

"In  disguise,"  says  I.  ''The  last  time  he  was 
in  the  ring  he  hit  a  man  so  hard — well,  he  has  to 
keep  quiet  until  he  hears  from  the  hospital." 

"What  whoppers!"  says  Inez. 

"Will  you  shush  once?"  says  I,  giving  her  an 
elbow  jab. 

But  Roland  is  getting  over  his  brief  panic.    "I 
217 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

am  terrified — not,"  says  he.  "I  do  what  I 
please.'* 

"Not  while  I'm  around,  you  big  stiff,"  says 
Barry,  white  as  a  napkin,  but  bristling  up  to  him 
with  his  fingers  bunched. 

"So?"  says  Roland.  "And  what  is  that  to 
you?" 

They  were  glaring  at  each  other  almost  mur- 
derous when  I  promptly  shoved  between  them. 
"Please,  gentlemen!"  says  I,  "not  in  here.  Any- 
way, not  until  I  can  shoo  this  dinner  party  out 
and  lock  the  door.  You  can  hold  in  the  assault 
and  batter  that  long,  can't  you?  And  by  that 
time  perhaps  you  can  work  up  a  real  quarrel. 
You  haven't  either  of  you  more  than  half  ex- 
pressed your  dislike  for  the  other,  have  you  ? " 

"I  can  tell  him  what  he  is  in  very  few  words," 
says  Barry.  "He's  a  flapper  hound." 

"Bah!"  says  Roland.    "You— you  are  a—" 

But  that's  as  far  as  he  got.  The  rest  of  his  re- 
mark seemed  to  choke  him,  for  he  stuttered  and 
gurgled  and  stared  over  Barry's  shoulder.  Of 
course  I  turned  and  looked,  too,  only  to  see  a 
quietly  dressed,  youngish  woman,  with  snappy 
black  eyes  and  jet  ear  danglers.  She  had  come 
in  during  the  debate  and  stood  listening.  But 
when  she  did  speak  it  was  in  a  cold,  cutting  voice, 
with  a  foreign  accent. 

"Flapper  hound  is  true,"  says  she.  "I  have 
218 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

not  heard  it  before,  but  it  is  a  good  name  for 
him." 

"Marie!'*  says  Roland,  gaspy. 

"So  this  is  your  special  meeting  of  the  labor 
union!"  she  demands.  "For  this  you  put  on 
the  Sunday  coat?  For  this  you  peench  the  ten 
dollar  from  inside  the  clock?  Hein?" 

Every  word  she  snaps  out  crisp  and  sharp, 
with  those  black  eyes  fairly  blazing  at  Roland. 
But  he's  a  smooth  performer.  I  could  guess  that 
he's  been  up  against  an  emergency  like  this  be- 
fore, for  after  the  first  jolt  he  tries  to  smile,  and 
stands  there  caressing  his  mustache. 

"It  is  all  a  big  mistake,  my  dear  Marie,"  says 
he.  "I  shall  explain  to  you  and  you  will  laugh." 

"Oh,  will  I  ? "  says  Marie.  "  But  I  have  watch 
from  outside.  I  have  heard.  I  know.  Your  old 
tricks.  You  have  come  here  to  make  love  to 
some  young  lady.  Which  one.  You?"  And  she 
looks  straight  at  me. 

"You  flatter  me,"  says  I.  "Take  another 
look,  then  glance  at  Inez,  and  have  one  more 
guess.  Ah,  now  you've  got  it." 

Marie  gives  Inez  the  swift  up  and  down,  and 
then  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "He  does  not  al- 
ways choose  them  so — so  beeg,"  says  she,  with 
a  sniff. 

"Few  of  'em  run  that  size,"  says  I,  "or  have 
her  appetite  for  after-theater  suppers.  Yet  that 

219 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

was  part  of  his  proposition,  and  if  he  was  planning 
to  do  it  all  on  ten  dollars  I  call  it  a  sporty  one." 

"Don't  listen,  Marie,"  protests  Roland.  "It 
— it  is  not  so." 

"That's  easy,"  says  I.    "Ask  Inez." 

But  Inez  is  all  set  to  ask  some  information  for 
herself.  She  wants  it  direct  from  Roland,  the 
romantic,  and  her  way  of  attracting  his  attention 
is  to  stretch  out  a  lovely  white  arm  that  has  often 
turned  a  feed  cutter  all  day  long,  grip  a  set  of 
strong  fingers  under  the  collar  of  the  cutaway, 
and  drag  the  recently  ardent  one  firmly  up  against 
the  cashier's  desk. 

"She — she  your  wife?"  demands  Inez,  calm 
but  businesslike. 

"Why — er — yes,  of  course,"  admits  Roland. 

"Kids,  too?"  goes  on  Inez. 

"Oh,  why  go  into  all  that?"  protests  Roland. 
"If  I  can't  go  around  a  little  with — " 

"How  many?"  breaks  in  Inez. 

At  which  Roland  turns  sulky,  so  wifie  supplies 
the  vital  statistics.  "Three  we  have,"  says  she. 
"There's  Henri,  who  is  nine;  and  little  Roland, 
almost  six;  and  Baby  Rosie,  who  is  crying  be- 
cause her  papa  don't  come  home  for  dinner.  So ! " 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  and  I  could  tell  by  the  way 
her  mouth  corners  straightened  out  that  for  once 
she  was  losing  that  placid  poise. 

I  could  imagine,  too,  that  Inez  was  deeply 

220 


INEZ  FINDS  A  FLAPPER  HOUND 

shocked,  for  in  spite  of  all  her  easy  ways  she  still 
has  a  lot  of  good  old-fashioned  ideas.  But  what 
she  meant  to  do  about  it  I  couldn't  even  guess. 
So  I  gave  Barry's  arm  a  gleeful  pinch  and  stood 
one  side. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  making  it  more  of  a  snort 
than  before.  "And  you  would  come  here  calling 
me  your  star-eyed  goddess,  and  your  cherry-bell; 
and  take  me  to  shows,  and  little  suppers,  and  taxi 
riding  in  the  park!  You,  with  family  at  home! 
Loafer!  I'll  show  you." 

She  did.  Inez  was  at  it  almost  before  we  knew 
what  she  was  up  to.  And  she  doesn't  swing  a 
mean  left,  either.  Not  with  her  fist.  Just  open- 
handed  cuffs,  but  they  landed  on  Roland's  jaw 
good  and  solid. 

"That  for  Henri!"  says  she,  with  the  first 
smack.  "And  this  for  the  young  Roland!  And 
one  for  Baby  Rosie!  And  another  for  the  wife! 
There!  Now  maybe  you  take  care  who  you  get 
fresh  with  next  time." 

And  all  Roland  could  do  was  stand  there  and 
take  it.  He  did  wriggle  some,  and  try  to  cover 
up  with  his  arms,  but  there  was  no  pulling  loose 
from  that  right  grip  of  Inez's,  and  her  left  crashed 
through  any  guard  he  could  put  up. 

As  for  Marie,  she  watched  admiring.  "How 
wonderful  to  be  so  strong  in  the  hands ! "  says  she. 
"Ha!  He  would  pick  a  beeg  one.  Now  I  shall 

221 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

know  how  to  feenish  when  I  get  him  home.  Come 
you ! "  And  she  grabbed  him  by  the  ear. 

"Just  a  minute,"  says  I.  "Roland  was  telling 
us  that  he  was  in  business  on  Broadway.  I  don't 
care  for  the  number,  but  I'm  curious  to  know 
just  what  his  line  is.  Importer,  maybe,  or 
broker?" 

"Heem!"  says  Marie.  "He  is  head  barber  in 
Max  Girard's  shop,  where  I  am  manicure." 

"Gosh,  Inez!"  says  I.  "What  a  blow!  And 
you  had  him  all  framed  up  as  some  excess  profits 
vice-president,  didn't  you?" 

"Maybe,"  says  Inez,  hunching  her  shoulders 
careless.  "If  I  did  I  get  him  unframed.  Hey?" 

"Isn't  it  great,  Barry,"  says  I,  as  Marie  and 
Roland  faded  from  the  scene,  "to  have  a  disposi- 
tion like  that  ? " 

"What  impresses  me  most  about  Inez,"  cays 
he,  "is  her  wallop." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  shake  hands  with  Rol- 
and before  he  left?"  says  I.  "That's  where  you 
two  seem  to  agree." 

Which  prompts  Barry  to  give  me  one  of  those 
chummy  smiles  of  his. 

"You're  a  good  pal,  Trilby  May,"  says  he. 

"I  accept  the  nomination,"  says  I. 

Then  we  closed  up  the  Cave  and  called  it  a 
day. 


Chapter  XIII 
A  Line  On  Aunt  Luella 

T  SUPPOSE  we  did  have  rather  a  wild  crowd  in 
•*•  the  Cave  that  evening.  Especially  after  the 
send-off  dinner  to  Daddy  Gill  got  well  under 
way.  Zenas  Gill,  the  landscape  painter,  you 
know.  He  had  wound  up  his  summer  art  class 
early,  and  had  come  down  from  his  place  in  Con- 
necticut to  go  abroad  for  a  few  months,  and  about 
a  dozen  of  his  students  had  trailed  along  to  work 
up  this  going  away  affair  as  a  slight  token  of  how 
well  he  stood  with  them.  Judging  from  the  way 
they  went  to  it  he  must  be  more  or  less  popular, 
too. 

Anyway,  that's  the  idea  the  committee  left 
with  me  when  they  came  around  early  in  the 
afternoon  to  make  the  arrangements.  "He's  just 
an  old  dear,  Daddy  Gill  is,"  explained  one  of  the 
girls  to  me,  "and  we  want  to  give  him  a  good 
time."  So  I  rustled  up  some  dinner  favors,  and 
bags  of  confetti,  and  a  few  gas  balloons,  and 
decorated  one  of  the  big  tables.  Of  course, 
Daddy  Gill  turns  out  to  be  a  gentle-mannered 

223 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

old  bach  with  a  straw-colored  Vandyke,  and  mild 
eyes,  and  the  boys  and  girls  were  mostly  young 
people  from  small  towns  who  didn't  take  their 
paint  daubing  or  anything  else  very  seriously. 

Yet  when  they  got  on  the  fancy  paper  caps, 
and  started  to  pepper  each  other  with  confetti, 
and  began  tying  up  Daddy  Gill's  whiskers  with 
pink  ribbons,  and  broke  loose  with  occasional 
bursts  of  song,  they  might  have  looked  more  or 
less  riotous  to  an  outsider.  The  four  young  chaps 
from  the  General  Electric  offices  tried  to  join  in, 
from  the  next  table,  and  weren't  altogether  dis- 
couraged. Then  there  were  the  usual  commuter 
delegations,  seeing  Greenwich  Village  for  the  first 
time,  and  ready  to  take  a  hand  in  any  kind  of 
merriment  that  was  going. 

I'll  admit  I  like  to  see  a  lively  lot  having  din- 
ner. It's  good  for  business,  for  one  thing;  and 
then  again,  they're  not  so  apt  to  notice  that  the 
chicken  is  tough  or  the  service  slow.  Also,  it 
helps  keep  Inez  from  yawning,  which  is  the  last 
thing  a  White  Goddess  ought  to  be  caught  at  in 
her  official  capacity.  That  is,  not  if  she  means  to 
put  the  proper  amount  of  pep  in  her  act.  And 
you  know  I  have  to  jog  Inez  up  occasionally,  as 
she  sits  there  behind  the  cash  register.  She's  apt 
to  slump  on  the  throne,  if  you  get  me. 

"Say,  dearie,"  I  have  to  tell  her,  "you  know 
this  is  no  Sleeping  Princess  stunt  you're  sup- 

224 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

posed  to  be  pulling.  Come  now;  chin  up,  shoul- 
ders back.  That's  it.  Bright  and  snappy,  or  else 
some  one  will  get  past  you  without  cashing  in." 

But  I  didn't  have  to  prod  her  any  on  this  par- 
ticular evening.  No.  There  was  too  much  going 
on.  Especially  when  the  art  students  got  to 
singing,  "I'm  a  Wild  Prairie  Flower,"  and  drink- 
ing a  ginger  ale  toast  to  the  health  of  General 
Boom-Boom.  Then  the  commuters  and  out-of- 
town  buyers  knew  they  were  getting  their 
money's  worth.  Absolutely. 

"Talk  about  your  merry  villagers;  eh,  Inez?" 
says  I. 

"Lotta  cut-ups,"  says  she. 

"But  all  quite  innocent  and  harmless  gaiety," 
says  I.  "It's  lucky  we're  so  far  back  from  the 
street,  though,  or  some  of  these  old  Ninth  Ward- 
ers would  be  siccing  a  raiding  party  on  us.  I 
should  say  that  a  good  time  was  being  had  by  all." 

"Except  one,"  says  Inez.  "See?  Her  by  the 
corner." 

Sure  enough,  I  had  overlooked  this  high- 
chested,  straight-haired  female,  with  the  sharp 
nose  and  the  narrow-guage  eyes.  You  could  tell 
by  the  puckered  seams  of  her  shirtwaist  and  the 
millinery  atrocity  pinned  to  her  iron-gray  hair, 
that  she  must  have  drifted  in  from  the  cheese 
and  doughnut  belt.  She  was  alone,  too,  which 
wasn't  so  surprising  when  you  considered  the 

225 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

firm  set  to  her  jaw  and  the  sour  sag  to  her  mouth 
corners.  Somehow  that  kind  generally  are  alone, 
or  ought  to  be.  Unless  they're  running  an  or- 
phans' home  or  a  retreat  for  wayward  girls. 
You've  seen  the  type,  I  expect. 

She's  finished  her  dinner,  all  but  the  demi- 
tasse  of  black  coffee,  which  she  has  pushed  scorn- 
fully to  one  side.  And  now  she  is  sitting  back, 
with  her  sensible  heels  planted  squarely  on  the 
floor,  and  a  cold,  disapproving  look  in  her  bright 
brown  eyes.  Also  there  was  a  critical  tilt  to  her 
nose. 

"You're  right,  Inez,"  says  I.  "That  old  girl 
is  feeling  the  need  of  shock  absorbers.  But  why 
she  insists  on  sticking  around  when  her  pure 
soul  is  getting  such  rude  bumps  is  a  puzzle  to 
me.  I  wonder  if  I  hadn't  better  ease  her  out  into 
the  street  before  she  blows  a  fuse?'* 

That  was  my  friendly  notion  when  I  wandered 
over  to  her  corner  and  asked,  casually,  if  the 
dinner  had  been  all  right. 

"I  didn't  mind  it,"  says  she.  "I  have  an  ex- 
cellent digestion  and  I  seldom  suffer  from  pto- 
maine poisoning." 

"That's  comforting,"  says  I.  "Have  your 
check,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  says  she.  "Highway  robbery 
I  call  it,  asking  that  much  for  a  mess  of  outland- 
ish food." 

226 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment,"  says  I.  "Did 
somebody  rope  you  and  drag  you  in  here  against 
your  will  ? " 

"They  did  not,"  says  she.  "I  came  here  for 
a  purpose,  young  woman.  Will  you  kindly  tell 
me  who  manages  this — this  resort?" 

"I'm  one  of  the  guilty  parties,"  says  I,  "and 
my  accomplice  in  crime  is  Inez,  who  poses  as  The 
White  Goddess  over  there,  under  the  black  vel- 
vet canopy.  Go  on.  Serve  the  subpoena." 

"Humph!"  says  she.  "So  this  is  the  place 
where  my  nephew  spends  so  much  of  his  time, 
is  it?" 

"Which  nephew?"  says  I.  "Has  he  got  a 
name  ? " 

"Certainly  he  has,"  says  she.  "I  presume 
you  know  it  well  enough,  too.  His  name  is  Barry 
Platt." 

"Oo-Oo,  la-la!"  I  gasps.    "Aunt  Luella!" 

For  I'd  heard  Barry  mention  her  several  times. 
Generally  it  would  be  Sunday  night,  just  as  we 
were  starting  for  somewhere,  and  Barry  would 
stop  suddenly  in  his  tracks,  groan  deeply,  and 
remark:  "Oh,  curse!  I  forgot  to  write  to  Aunt 
Luella  last  night."  And  once  he  had  told  me 
something  about  her.  He  had  lived  with  her 
ever  since  he  was  nine,  when  his  mother  had 
died  and  his  father  had  gone  to  British  Guiana 
with  a  rubber  concern  and  had  never  come 

227 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

back.     She  lived  up   state,  somewhere — Utica, 
I  think. 

He  had  added  that  Aunt  Luella  was  a  widow 
with  a  trunk  full  of  interest-paying  bonds  and  a 
gloomy,  old  stone  mansion,  furnished  tastefully 
in  fhe  early  McKinley  period.  Also  that  she  was 
a  good  old  soul  who  gave  libera  ly  to  foreign  mis- 
sion funds,  but  couldn't  be  induced  to  unbelt  for 
much  of  anything  else.  Between  the  lines  I 
gathered  that  she  had  an  inquisitive  disposition 
and  a  suspicious  nature.  She  looked  it.  More 
than  that,  she  listened  that  way. 

"Barry  has  mentioned  this  place  several  times 
in  his  letters/'  says  she.  "That  is  why  I  came 
down.  I  wished  to  see  for  myself." 

"Yes ? "  says  I.    "Getting  an  eyefull,  are  you  ? " 

She  nods  vigorous.  "I  thought  it  could  not 
be  a  proper  place,  from  the  very  name,"  says  she, 
"but  I  had  no  idea  it  was  such  a  den  of  iniquity." 

"Ouch!"  says  I.  "Right  in  the  reputation. 
Say,  if  you  can  control  the  shudders  long  enough, 
maybe  you'd  point  out  some  of  this  iniquity 
stuff.  I'd  like  to  see  it." 

"If  you  are  too  hardened  to  observe  for  your- 
self, young  woman,"  says  she,  "I  will.  For  in- 
stance, there  are  all  those  shameless  girls  who  are 
carrying  on  with  those  young  men." 

"You  mean  they're  making  a  lot  of  noise?"  I 
asks. 

228 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

"I  mean  that  two  of  them  are  smoking  cigar- 
ettes and  all  of  them  have  their  faces  painted," 
says  Aunt  Luella. 

"Faces!"  says  I.  "So  they  have.  How  old 
fashioned !  But  you  know  that  the  real  modern 
flapper  doesn't  waste  rouge  and  powder  on  her 
cheeks  now.  Not  at  all.  She  puts  it  on  her 
knees." 

But  auntie  simply  stares  at  me  as  though  I'd 
told  her  a  whopper.  "There's  no  sense  in  that; 
none  at  all,"  says  she.  "Knees!" 

"Oh,  perhaps  they're  not  rolling  'em  in  Utica," 
says  I. 

"Cigarettes?"  says  she. 

"No,  socks,"  says  I. 

And  while  she  was  getting  her  breath  1  slipped 
off  to  see  whether  the  commuters  were  going  to 
have  cheere  or  ice  cream.  But  minutes  later  she 
held  me  up  again. 

"I  suppose  that  creature  with  the  bare  arms 
and  shoulders — the  one  behind  the  desk — is 
Inez?"  she  demands. 

"Miss  Inez  Petersen,  to  be  exact,"  says  I. 
"Like  to  meet  her?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  says  Aunt  Luella.  "I  pre- 
sume it  is  she  who  has  infatuated  my  poor 
nephew?" 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  guess  it  was  me,  would 
you?"  says  I. 

229 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Auntie  doesn't  even  have  to  look  me  over  again 
before  shaking  her  head.  "Really,  you  know," 
she  goes  on,  "you  do  not  look  as  though  you 
were  wholly  depraved." 

"Oh,  now!"  says  I.    "No  flattery." 

"I  speak  from  experience,"  says  she.  "As  a 
member  of  our  church  Guild  I  have  done  much 
work  among  the  lower  classes.  I  am  chairman 
of  the  committee  for  improving  the  condition  of 
factory  girls.  We  conduct  evening  classes  for 
them — embroidery  and  sacred  music  and  the  his- 
tory of  art.  And,  really,  I  have  found  some  of 
them  quite  responsive." 

"Isn't  that  nice!"  says  I.  "But  I  doubt  if  I'm 
that  kind." 

"Never  despair,"  says  Aunt  Luella.  "You 
seem  rather  a  bright  young  person.  Tell  me, 
what  is  your  name?" 

"That's  the  worst  part  of  it,"  says  I.  "I'm 
Trilby  May  Dodge." 

"Trilby!"  says  she.  "An  abandoned  charac- 
ter in  a  dreadful  old  book  of  fiction,  which  I  was 
not  allowed  to  read  when  I  was  a  girl.  What  an 
unfortunate  choice  of  names!" 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "Maw  wanted  to  call  me  Ara- 
bella, after  a  parlor  car;  but  Paw  held  out  for 
Trilby,  and  for  once  he  had  his  way." 

"And  you  were  brought  up  in — in  these  slums, 

were  you?"  asks  auntie. 

230 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

"Not  exactly,"  says  I.  "I  was  born  near  Dan- 
bury,  Connecticut,  but  soon  after  that  Paw  took 
me  out  into  the  woods  of  Minnesota.  Never 
heard  of  Tamarack  Junction,  did  you  ?  Well,  I 
lived  within  three  miles  of  there  until  two  years 
ago.  And  I've  been  in  Greenwich  Village  exactly 
five  weeks.  So  has  Inez." 

"Shocking!"  says  auntie." But  have  you  made 
no  effort  to  get  back  to  the  pure,  simple  life  of  the 
country?" 

"Nary  an  effort,"  says  I.  "It  wasn't  so  simple, 
you  know,  as  it  sounds.  I  had  to  do  most  of  the 
work  for  a  family  of  nine.  And  the  stepmother 
I  left  didn't  add  much  to  the  purity  of  the  place. 
Hardly.  You  ought  to  see  Maw  Dodge  once 
when  she  was  well  liquored  up  on  home  brew. 
Say!" 

That  got  a  shudder  out  of  Aunt  Luella.  But 
she's  a  consistent  reformer.  "Still,"  she  goes  on, 
"you  might  try  to  lead  a  different  life  from  this. 
And  you  should  use  your  influence  to  get  this 
Inez  person  to  strive  for  better  things." 

Which  was  about  all  I  could  stand  from  this 
old  girl  with  the  acetic  acid  smile  and  the  brad- 
awl eyes.  "Say,  you're  a  dream,  you  are!"  says 
I.  "Listen,  auntie;  you  have  a  mind  that  needs 
chloride  of  lime  on  it.  Uh-huh !  One  of  the  kind 
that  could  find  a  rotten  spot  in  a  glass  apple. 
Who  gave  you  the  hunch,  anyway,  that  you  were 
16  231 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

•o  much  better  than  anybody  else?  Where  do 
you  get  that  holier-than-thou  stuff?  And  how 
do  you  know  you're  qualified  to  tell  other  people 
what  they  ought  to  do?  Say,  remember  this;  if 
you  don't  like  the  place,  you're  not  locked  in 
here.  The  exiting  is  good  any  time  you  care  to 
try  it." 

Which  few  heartfelt  remarks  had  her  tinted  up 
so  she  was  purple  clear  back  of  the  ears.  "Such 
brazen  impudence!"  says  she.  "But  I'll  have 
you  know,  young  woman,  that  I  came  here  to 
find  my  nephew,  and  I  shall  stay  until  he  comes." 

"Help  yourself,"  says  I.  "Barry '11  be  de- 
lighted, I  don't  think." 

Honest,  with  all  that  off  my  chest,  I  felt  a  lot 
better.  So  when  I  discovered  this  queer-looking 
old  sport  with  the  shifty  eyes  peeking  cautious 
through  the  alley  door  I  was  almost  cordial  .to 
him. 

"Well,  mister,"  says  I,  "who  do  you  guess 
you're  sleuthing?" 

"S-s-s-h!"  says  he.  "Come  here  a  minute, 
will  you?" 

Course,  he  did  have  on  a  loud  fancy  vest,  and 
his  renovated  Panama  had  a  rakish  tilt  to  it; 
but  there's  a  friendly  twinkle  in  those  restless 
eyes  of  his,  and  he's  such  an  inoffensive  looking, 
middle-aged  party  otherwise,  that  I  took  a 

chance  on  stepping  out  into  the  alley. 

232 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

"What's  the  scandal?"  says  I. 

"He-he!"  he  chuckles.  "You've  said  it.  Say, 
ain't  you  noticed  a  lady  with  a  pointed  nose  and 
sharp  eyes  and  a  hat  with  a  big  jet  buckle  on  it 
in  there?" 

"One  with  grayish  hair  and  a  high  chest  and 
a  mouth  that  looks  as  if  she  was  sucking  lemon 
drops?"  I  asks. 

"That's  her!"  says  he. 

"You  mean  Aunt  Luella  Platt,  of  Utica?" 
says  I. 

"Dumbed  if  I  don't!"  says  he,  enthusiastic. 
"She's  the  very  one." 

"Friend  of  yours?"  I  asks. 

"Friend!"  says  he.  "Say,  she's  nobody's 
friend,  Luella  Platt  ain't.  Nor  ever  was.  It 
ain't  in  her.  Just  a  meddlesome  old  gossip,  she 
is,  that  hates  other  folks  for  merely  being  alive." 

"Sounds  like  a  close  and  intimate  descrip- 
tion," says  I.  "You  must  know  her  fairly  well." 

"Ought  to,"  says  he.  "We  grew  up  together. 
And  there  was  a  time  when  we  were  both  young 
fools,  that  we — well,  we  were  kind  of  thick.  I 
dunno  as  I  can  tell  you  all,  young  lady." 

"Don't,"  says  I.  "Always  leave  something 
for  the  imagination.  Anyway,  it  was  such  a 
hectic  affair  that  you  never  quite  got  over  it  and 
are  still  trailing  Luella  around  to  see  that  no 
harm  comes  to  her.  That  it,  eh?" 

233 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Couldn't  be  much  wider,"  says  he.  "I'm 
just  as  crazy  over  Luella  Platt  as  I  am  over  hav- 
ing a  back  tooth  pulled.  She  cured  me  of  that 
years  ago,  and  what  she  hasn't  done  to  me 
since — " 

"Say,  if  you  could  sketch  it  out  briefly,"  says 
I,  "perhaps  I'd  get  the  idea  better.  Let's  see, 
you  are  who  and  what?" 

"Lem.  Snyder,"  says  he.  "And  I  did  run  one 
of  the  niftiest  gent's  furnishing  shops  in  Utica 
until  Luella  got  in  her  fine  work.  You  see,  old 
man  Platt  was  a  mortgage  and  loan  hound,  and 
when  he  checked  out  she  was  left  with  a  lot  of 
commercial  paper,  carrying  all  the  way  from  10 
to  20  per  cent.  Among  the  collection  was  some 
notes  of  mine.  You'd  'most  thought,  too,  that 
she  wouldn't  have  pushed  me  very  hard,  for  old 
times'  sake.  But  say,  the  very  first  time  she  got 
me  in  a  tight  place  blamed  if  she  didn't  jump  on 
me  with  a  judgment  and  get  me  sold  out.  Since 
then  I've  been  clerkin'  in  the  place  I  used  to 
own.  Twelve  years  I've  been  at  it." 

"Well,  that  ought  to  satisfy  her,  I  should 
think,"  says  I. 

"You  don't  know  Luella,  then,"  says  Mr. 
Snyder.  "Seems  as  if  she'd  sort  of  curdled 
against  me.  Afraid  I'd  talk,  I  expect.  So  she 
beat  me  to  it.  I  don't  think  she's  ever  missed 
a  chance  in  the  last  dozen  years  to  give  me  a 

234 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

knock.  You  know,  spreadin'  gossip.  Whyv 
some  of  the  tales  she  peddled  around  among  the 
old  hens  she's  chummy  with  would  get  me  run 
out  of  town  if  everybody  believed  'em.  Mighty 
near  lost  me  my  job  twice,  as  it  was.  Not  that 
I'm  any  saint.  I  do  travel  around  with  a  bunch 
of  live  ones,  I'll  admit.  And  now  and  then  we 
have  some  gay  parties.  But  it's  nobody's  busi- 
ness, as  I  see.  I  ain't  married,  and  if  I  drop  a 
week's  salary  on  poker,  or  blow  it  in  giving  some 
young  lady  a  good  time,  I'm  the  only  one  that's 
out.  But  let  Luella  get  hold  of  a  hint  and  she'll 
make  the  worst  of  it.  Honest,  I  ain't  got  enough 
reputation  left  to  swear  by,  thanks  to  her,  and 
when  I  saw  this  chance  to  get  square — " 

"What  chance?"  I  puts  in. 

"Why,"  says  Snyder,  "her  being  off  on  a  little 
spree  of  her  own.  I  just  got  onto  it  by  accident. 
You  see,  I  happened  to  be  down  here  on  a  buying 
trip  for  the  boss.  Didn't  dream  she  was  in  town, 
too,  until  this  afternoon  I  saw  her  at  the  hotel 
desk  and  overheard  her  asking  how  to  get  to 
Greenwich  Village  and  where  to  find  the  Cave 
of  the  WThite  Goddess  joint." 

"Odd  you  should  pick  out  the  same  hotel,"  I 
suggests. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  he.  "It's  a  small 
one  on  West  Forty-seventh  Street  that's  run  by 
Utica  people,  and  most  of  our  folks  patronize  it 

235 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

when  they  come  to  New  York.  Makes  us  feel 
more  at  home,  you  know.  Anyway,  that's  ho\r 
I  got  a  line  on  Luella,  and  now  I  want  to  know 
what  she's  up  to." 

"Sorry,"  says  1,  "but  she's  only  sleuthing  after 
her  nephew,  Barry  Platt." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  says  Lem.  disappointed. 
"I  was  in  hopes — " 

"Say,"  I  breaks  in,  "perhaps  it  can  be  ar- 
ranged, after  all.  She'd  be  rather  surprised  if 
you  should  walk  in  on  her  here,  wouldn't  she?" 

"I'll  bet  she  would,"  says  he. 

"Then  wait,"  says  1.  "Barry  isn't  here  yet, 
but  there's  a  friend  of  his  in  there  who — •  Well, 
I'll  see  what  can  be  done  and  you  stick  around 
until  I  give  you  the  signal." 

Perhaps  I  haven't  mentioned  Barry's  room- 
mate up  at  Miss  Wellby's.  Well,  it's  hardly 
necessary,  for  if  you  give  Mr.  Hamilton  Burr 
Wright  only  half  a  chance  he'll  mention  himself. 
Incidentally,  too,  he'll  admit  being  the  shiftiest 
automobile  salesman  north  of  Columbus  Circle, 
quote  figures  to  prove  it,  and  be  calling  you  by 
your  first  name  inside  often  minutes.  "I  don't 
persuade  'em,"  is  Hammy  Wright's  slogan.  "I 
hypnotize  'em.  Yeah-uh!  Put  the  spell  on 
them.  That's  my  method.  I  can  sell  any  old 
make  of  car.  Just  give  me  a  chance  to  put  over 
my  siren  song  and  I'll  unload  a  mortar  mixer  on 

236 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

a  hard-boiled  plute  who's  looking  for  a  Rolls- 
Royce.  That's  me." 

And  Hammy  was  in  there,  then,  sipping  his 
second  cup  of  chickory  blend,  smoking  his  fifth 
cigarette,  and  watching  the  art  students  with  a 
bored  eye.  It  took  me  less  than  three  minutes 
to  sidle  along,  explain  to  him  the  plot  of  the  piece 
concerning  Aunt  Luella  and  Lem.  Snyder,  and 
suggest  that  he  help  out. 

"Just  tell  her  you're  a  friend  of  Barry's  and 
go  to  it,"  says  1.  "Improvise  all  you  want,  only 
fix  up  a  nice  sporty  scene  for  Mr.  Snyder's 
entrance." 

"Trust  me,"  says  Hammy,  indulging  in  a  grin. 

Really,  though,  I  didn't  know  how  good  he 
was.  I'd  heard  he  was  a  smooth  performer;  not 
only  from  him,  but  from  Barry.  But  say,  he 
would  have  the  king  of  a  wire-tapping  gang  look- 
ing like  an  amateur.  I  saw  him  saunter  over 
casual,  stop  as  though  he  was  surprised,  smile, 
and  then  start  telling  Aunt  Luella  all  about  it. 

The  next  time  I  glanced  their  way  Hammy 
Wright  was  sitting  close  beside  her,  one  arm 
draped  over  the  back  of  auntie's  chair,  and  he 
was  evidently  remarking  what  a  stunner  she 
must  have  been  only  a  few  years  ago.  Judging 
by  the  simper  on  the  old  girl's  face,  it  was  some- 
thing like  that.  Two  minutes  later  and  he'd 
induced  her  to  join  him  in  another  demi-tasse. 

237 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

1  brought  them.  It  was  then  I  heard  him  ex- 
plaining how  mild  his  cigarettes  were,  and  urging 
her  to  try  one,  just  for  the  experience. 

"Come,  now,"  he  was  saying,  "you  don't  want 
to  be  a  back  number,  do  you?  And  what  harm 
will  a  few  puffs  do?  Everyone  does  it  when  they 
come  to  the  Village.  It's  a  part  of  the  show. 
Here!  Just  try  this.'* 

I  waited  until  I'd  seen  him  strike  the  match 
and  then  I  dashed  for  the  door.  Who  should 
I  find  talking  with  Lem.  Snyder  but  Barry 
Platt.  ^ 

"Good  work!"  says  I.  "Everything  is  all 
set  for  the  reunion.  Crash  right  in,  both  of 
you." 

I  expect  I  gave  them  a  push,  too.  Anyway, 
they  landed  in  front  of  the  corner  table  just  as 
Aunt  Luella  was  waving  the  cigarette  in  one  hand 
and  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  the  other. 
Not  having  been  prepared,  it  was  a  genuine  jolt 
for  Barry. 

"Why,  Aunt  Luella!"  he  gasps.    "You!" 

"Gosh!"  says  Lem.  Snyder. 

And  when  she  saw  them  both  standing  there 
staring  at  her,  I  thought  for  a  minute  that  she 
was  going  to  do  a  back  somersault  over  the  chair. 
But  after  she  had  stopped  choking  from  the 
mouthful  of  smoke  she  had  swallowed,  she 
straightened  up,  and  turned  to  Hammy. 

238 


A  LINE  ON  AUNT  LUELLA 

"You — you  tell  them,  Mr.  Wright,  just  ho-vr 
it  happened,"  she  begged. 

"Huh!"  says  Lem.  "You  don't  need  to  tell 
me.  I've  seen  enough.  And  I'm  goin'  back  to 
Utica  on  the  midnight." 

"Don't  you  dare,  Lem.  Snyder,"  she  splut- 
tered, "until  you've  heard — " 

But  Mr.  Snyder  was  already  half  way  to  the 
door,  and  he  never  stopped. 

Meanwhile  I'd  had  a  chance  to  give  Barry  a 
nudge.  He's  quick  at  picking  up  a  cue,  too. 

"Really,  auntie,"  he  protests,  "I  didn't  quite 
expect  this  of  you.  How  long  have  you  had  the 
habit?" 

And  the  more  she  tried  to  explain  the  sadder 
grew  the  shake  of  Barry's  head,  until  finally  she 
lost  her  temper  completely  and  told  him  what  a 
young  wretch  he  was.  But  somehow  the  lecture 
on  his  morals  and  wicked  habits  was  permanently 
sidetracked.  She  wouldn't  even  allow  him  to 
take  her  back  to  her  hotel. 

"No,  thank  you,"  says  she.  "I  think  Mr. 
Wright  will  do  that  for  me.  He  understands  me 
much  better  than  you  seem  to,  Barry.  And 
what  I  meant  to  say  to  you  I  shall  put  in  a  lettter. 
Good  night." 

She  was  still  purplish  in  the  neck  as  she 
marched  out,  and  she  rewarded  me  with  a  parting 
glare. 

239 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"Charming  disposition,  eh?"  says  Barry,  nod- 
ding after  her. 

"But  outside  of  that,"  says  I,  "she's  a  per- 
fectly nice  aunt.  I  do  hope  she  comes  again — 
when  I'm  out." 


Chapter  XIV 
Inez  Applies  the  Acid  Test 

IT'S  a  shifty  little  old  world,  I'll  say.  Not 
*•  that  it  looked  it  on  the  29th.  No,  I  remernber 
I  was  wondering  that  afternoon  if  Inez  and  I 
would  still  be  running  a  joint  in  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage, say  twenty  or  thirty  years  from  then;  and 
how  I  would  look  with  gray  bobbed  hair.  For 
that  was  the  prospect.  We  seemed  as  well 
anchored  and  as  fixed  as  the  Washington  Arch 
or  Sheridan  Square. 

I'd  been  figuring  up  our  first  month's  profits 
from  The  Cave  of  the  White  Goddess.  I  hadn't 
got  it  quite  straight,  for  bookkeeping  isn't  one 
of  the  best  things  I  do,  but  with  a  little  free-hand 
juggling  of  expense  items  I'd  managed  to  strike 
a  balance  that  didn't  wabble  much  unless  you 
handled  it  rough.  You  see,  Uncle  Nels  had  let 
us  have  the  place  on  a  salary  and  commission 
basis,  and  I  was  planning  to  send  him  a  nice 
little  surprise.  It  would  have  to  go  through 
Barry  Platt,  I  supposed,  as  the  old  boy  hadn't 
been  near  us  since  that  first  night,  but  maybe 

241 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Barry  would  bring  us  back  some  kind  words. 
For  they  looked  rather  good,  those  figures. 

And  then  the  door  creaked,  and  in  trickled 
Uncle  Nels  himself.  He's  spruced  up  quite  a 
lot,  for  him.  Of  course  he's  still  baggy  about 
the  knees,  and  there's  the  same  slump  to  his 
shoulders;  but  he's  had  his  face  and  neck 
shaved,  he's  sporting  a  new  rubber  collar,  and 
he's  discarded  the  faded  old  lumberjack's  cap 
for  a  bargain  straw  hat  that  rests  secure  on  his 
ears. 

But  he  isn't  alone  this  time.  Trailing  behind 
is  a  wide-faced  party  with  a  button  nose  and  a 
Cordovan  tan  complexion.  A  heavy  set,  young- 
ish sort  of  person  who  sways  from  the  knees 
up  as  he  walks  and  wears  his  bullet  head  well 
forward,  as  if  he  was  prepared  to  butt  his 
way  through  something.  And  there's  no  doubt 
about  his  having  hailed  from  near  Stockholm 
originally. 

"Where's  Inez?"  demands  Uncle  Nels. 

"Oh,  she's  upstairs,"  says  I.  "As  usual,  she's 
getting  ready  to  go  to  a  movie  matinee." 

Uncle  Nels  shakes  his  head.  "Movies  in  day- 
time!" says  he. 

"It's  then  or  not  at  all,"  I  explains.  "She  has 
to  hold  down  the  Goddess  throne  all  the  evening, 
you  know." 

"Huh!"  says  he.  "Foolish!  Girls  should  work 
242 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

or — or  get  married."  And  with  that  he  nods 
decided  at  the  stranger.  Somehow  that  gave 
me  a  hunch. 

"Eh?"  says  I.    "Is  this  a  candidate?" 
"This,"  says  he,  with  an  elbow  gesture,  "this 
Cap'n    Knute    Olsen.     Friend    of   mine.     Nice 
young  feller." 

It   might  be  an  accurate  description   and  it 
might  not.     I've  seen  'em  younger  and  I  think 
I  could  pick  one  nicer  with  my  eyes  shut.     Per- 
sonally I  wasn't  crazy  about  the  airplane  ears, 
or  the  way  his  nose  finished,  or  the  stupid  look 
in  the  baby-blue  eyes.     Perhaps  Uncle  Nels  got 
a  hint  of  all  this,  for  he  adds: 
"He  makes  good  man  for  Inez." 
"Yes?"  says  I.    "What's  he  captain  of?" 
"Tugboat,"  says  Uncle  Nels.      "But  maybe 
he  gets  big  freight  steamer,  Rio  and  Argentine 
line.    I  own  shares  in  some." 

And  that  seemed  to  sketch  out  the  whole  plot 
of  the  piece  as  clear  as  if  he'd  talked  for  an  hour. 
He's  pretty  well  set  in  his  mind,  Uncle  Nels  is, 
and  ever  since  we'd  found  him  he  hasn't  seemed 
satisfied  that  Inez  was  indulging  in  her  share  of 
manual  labor.  You  remember  how  it  was  when 
he  bought  The  Cave  for  us.  He  did  it  because 
he  had  the  cute  idea  that  his  husky  niece  would 
do  the  cooking,  or  the  dishwashing  at  least.  Not 
being  able  to  wish  any  real  work  on  her,  he  had 

243 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

switched  to  this  new  scheme.  He  would  marry 
her  off. 

Well,  that  might  not  be  such  a  bad  move, 
either.  I  should  miss  her  a  lot,  of  course,  but  I 
couldn't  see  that  it  was  going  to  spoil  my  whole 
life.  Besides,  maybe  it  was  just  what  Inez  would 
like,  once  she  got  into  it.  As  the  blushing  bride 
of  a  freight-boat  captain  she  would  probably 
travel  around  a  lot.  Rio  and  the  Argentine! 
Perhaps  to  Japan  and  China!  And  for  a  girl  like 
Inez  this  Cap'n  Knute  might  be  the  ideal  hubby. 
Neither  of  'em  would  talk  the  other  to  death, 
anyway. 

"Say,  I  think  you've  said  something  now," 
says  I.  "Sound  and  steady,  is  he?" 

"He's  nice  feller,"  insists  Uncle  Nels. 

I  took  another  look  at  the  captain.  He  did 
seem  substantial,  especially  about  the  legs  and 
through  the  chest.  Wore  his  cheek  bones  a  bit 
high,  it  was  true,  and  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
tapered  off  kind  of  abrupt  at  the  chin,  like  a 
piece  of  pie;  but  those  were  mere  details. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "I  should  say  he  might  do.  I'll 
help  you  fix  things  up." 

Which  was  where  Cap'n  Knute  breaks  his  spell 
of  silence.  "Aye —  Aye  lak  to  see  your  Inez 
first,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  naturally,"  says  I.     "You're  not  going 

to  be  rushed  to  the  altar  on  any  sealed-bid  propo- 

244 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

sition.    Then  there's  Inez  to  be  considered,  too. 
You've  got  to  convince  her  that  you're  the  only 

guy." 

"Huh!"  grunts  Cap'n  Knute,  swelling  out  his 
chest  and  going  through  other  motions  peculiar 
to  the  conquering  male. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  says  I.  "You  rather 
fancy  yourself,  don't  you?  I  take  it  that  the  girls 
you've  met  so  far  have  been  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing a  fuss  over  you  without  any  preliminaries. 
Those  water-front  belles  would.  And  you're  an 
impressive  and  important  party — on  your  tug 
boat.  You  snap  your  fingers  for  somebody  to 
come,  and  he  comes.  You  yell  to  a  deckhand  to 
stick  out  a  bow  line,  and  it's  stuck  out.  But 
you're  going  to  find  Miss  Inez  Petersen  quite  a 
different  personage." 

"Hey?"  says  he,  staring  at  me,  stupid. 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "You  see,  she's  more 
or  less  decorative  and  easy  to  view,  Inez  is.  She- 
has  knocked  around  quite  a  bit  in  the  last  year 
or  so,  and  she's  met  a  good  many  men  who  have 
stopped  for  a  second  look  at  her.  Some  have 
told  her  what  a  stunner  she  was,  and  nearly  all 
have  signalled  as  much  with  their  eyes.  Not  that 
Inez  has  always  noticed  it.  She's  no  heavy- 
weight vamp.  But  she  has  a  romantic  disposi- 
tion. Uh-huh!  She's  kind  of  worked  up  an 
ideal  hero  of  her  own,  and  as  near  as  I  can 

MS 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

judge,  captain,  he  doesn't  resemble  you  in  the 
least." 

Cap'n  Knute  shrugs  his  shoulders  careless  and 
turns  to  Uncle  Nels.  "What's  the  use,  then?" 
says  he.  "I  no  care.  Plenty  girls." 

"You  wait,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Inez  do  what 
I  tell  her." 

"Now,  listen,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "You're 
all  wrong.  Inez  isn't  the  kind  that  you  can  tell 
much  of  anything  to.  Not  in  that  tone  of  voice. 
She's  got  a  balky  streak  in  her  that  would  make 
a  green  mule  seem  like  a  trained  seal.  If  I 
wanted  to  block  this  little  scheme  of  yours  I'd 
just  let  you  steam  ahead  along  that  line.  But 
I  want  to  help.  And  I'm  telling  you  that  Inez 
has  got  to  be  humored  at  the  start." 

"What  we  should  do?"  demands  Uncle  Nels. 

"Handle  her  easy,  kid  her  along,"  says  I. 
"She'll  be  down  presently.  Now,  my  advice  to 
the  captain  is,  that  he  should  blow  her  to  the 
best  movie  show  on  Broadway — loge  seats,  a  lot 
of  mixed  chocolates  for  her  to  browse  on  between 
reels,  and  a  ride  home  in  a  taxi." 

Uncle  Nels  groans.    "Expensive,"  says  he. 

"That's  our  middle  name,"  says  I.  "But  it's 
the  only  way  to  get  anywhere  with  us.  We  get 
over  it  later  on,  though.  I  think  Inez  will.  Just 
now  she  may  have  a  passing  notion  that  she 
wants  to  acquire  the  limousine  habit,  but  once 

246 


BUT — BUT  MISTER  FAIRBANKS  HE  WAS  SHOOTIN  GUNS,  AND — AND 
PUSHING  VILLAIN  IN  FACE,  AND  MAKING  LOVE  TO  LOVELY  LADY," 
INSISTS  INEZ.  "AND  HIM,  HE  SNORE?  THAT  CAPTAIN.  HUH!" 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

she  get  hooked  up  with  the  right  sort  of  man 
she'll  settle  down  and  develop  domestic  in- 
stincts that  will  surprise  you.  Anyway,  that's 
my  guess,  and  I  should  say  she'd  be  worth  work- 
ing for." 

"I  dunno,"  says  Cap'n  Knute,  "Aye  lak  to 
see  her." 

He  had  his  wish,  for  about  then  she  appears, 
all  gussied  up  in  a  new  dotted  Swiss  and  a  wide- 
brimmed  shadow  hat  to  match,  and  her  best 
gray  silk  socks.  Nothing  that  can  be  rubbed 
in  with  chamois  or  laid  on  with  a  brush  could 
produce  a  complexion  like  that,  either,  with 
the  rose  pink  blending  into  the  snow  white,  and 
changing  places  like  the  colors  in  an  electric 
sign. 

And  you  should  have  seen  the  chesty  expres- 
sion on  the  captain's  face  fade  out  and  gradually 
give  place  to  a  frank  Scandinavian  gawp.  From 
the  very  first  Inez  had  him  going.  He  took  her 
all  in  from  the  generous  ankles  to  the  bulging 
ear  puffs  that  she's  learned  to  make  out  of  her 
wheat-colored  hair,  and  after  that  he  was  a 
changed  man.  He  got  as  fussed  as  a  kid  when 
he  was  introduced,  his  feet  interfered  when  he 
stepped  up  to  shake  hands,  and  he  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  he  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  his 
big  paw  after  Inez  had  let  go  of  it.  He'd  seen 
Inez,  and  he  was  hers. 
17  247 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

But  Inez  wasn't  his  yet.  Not  by  several 
jumps.  She  inspected  him  calm  but  critical,  and 
tucked  in  a  fresh  cud  of  gum.  Of  course,  she  did 
drop  her  chin  a  bit  and  go  through  the  usual 
coy  motions,  but  I  could  tell  that  she  was  just 
wondering  why  Uncle  Nels  had  lugged  in  a 
stranger  and  how  long  they  were  going  to  hang 
around. 

Twice  Uncle  Nels  nudged  Cap'n  Knute  in  the 
ribs,  and  then  said  it  himself.  "Cap'n  Olsen," 
says  he,  "he — he  wants  you  to  go  to  movies." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  brightening  up.  "Movie 
show!  When?" 

"Right  away,"  says  I.  "All  set,  aren't  you? 
Then  you're  on  your  way.  Better  take  the  sub- 
way or  you'll  miss  the  news  reel.  By-by!" 

And  by  giving  the  captain  a  gentle  push  I  got 
'em  started  without  any  more  stalling  around. 

Uncle  Nels  watched  them  with  a  satisfied  look 
in  his  shrewd  eyes.  "That's  all  right,  too,  I 
guess,"  says  he. 

"It  opens  well,  anyway,"  says  I.  "But  let's 
understand  about  this  freight  steamer  job  for 
him.  Is  this  an  out-and-out  promise,  or  just  a 
hope?" 

"Sure,  I  get  him  steamer,"  says  Uncle  Nels. 
"He's  good  feller,  Cap'n  Knute.  I  know  his 
father  in  Sweden." 

"Then  here's  trusting  that  he  and  Inez  get 
248 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

along  well  on  their  try  out,"  says  I.  "They'd 
make  good  running  mates  if  they  could  hit  it 
off." 

"How  soon  you  can  tell?"  asks  Uncle  Nels. 

"Depends  on  whether  or  not  Cap'n  Knute  is 
a  fast  worker  or  a  slow  one,"  says  I,  "but  after 
a  whole  afternoon  together  we  should  be  able  to 
get  some  line  on  the  affair." 

"I  think  I  wait,"  says  Uncle  Nels. 

That  seems  to  be  the  easiest  thing  he  does.  I 
wanted  to  find  something  for  him  to  read,  but  he 
shook  his  head.  Reading  isn't  in  his  line.  I  was 
afraid  he'd  want  to  poke  around  the  place  and  ask 
fool  questions.  But  no.  He's  quite  content  just 
to  sit  there  in  a  hard  chair,  his  washed-out  blue 
eyes  fixed  steady  on  nothing  at  all,  for  three  solid 
hours.  So  far  as  I  could  see  he  didn't  even  blink. 
Maybe  he  was  thinking,  but  I  doubt  it.  Half  an 
hour  of  that  would  have  given  me  the  fidgets. 
I'm  no  sitter,  though,  and  Uncle  Nels  is.  Queer 
old  boy.  I  don't  get  him  at  all.  And  how  any- 
body with  so  much  bone  in  the  head  as  that 
could  surround  as  much  coin  as  he  must  have 
collected  is  a  mystery.  Got  it  in  the  lumber 
business.  Maybe  he  planted  pine  cones  and 
watched  'em  grow  up. 

Anyway,  while  he  sat  there  without  hardly 
shuffling  his  feet  or  batting  an  eyelash,  I  checked 
over  the  accounts  for  a  month,  made  out  a  whole 

249 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

sheaf  of  checks  to  be  signed,  copied  off  a  dozen 
menus  for  the  evening,  and  helped  set  up  all  the 
tables.  Then,  about  five-thirty,  I  heard  a  taxi 
stop  out  front. 

"This  ought  to  be  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  says  I. 
"Yes.  Here  they  come." 

But  they  didn't  arrive  blushing,  or  hand  in 
hand.  In  fact,  Inez  came  marching  in  alone,  and 
I  could  see  no  gay,  excited  flicker,  in  those  calm 
gray  eyes. 

"Well,  how  were  the  pictures,  Inez?"  I  asked. 

"All  right,"  says  she. 

"Couldn't  have  been  a  Bill  Hart  feature, 
then,"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Inez.  "Mister  Douglas  Fairbanks. 
Fine!  He  climbs  up  side  of  church  and  slides 
down  other  side  into  automobile." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Then  there  was  a  thrill  in  it. 
Did  Captain  Knute  get  excited,  too?" 

"Him!"  says  Inez,  glancing  scornful  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  door. 

"Well,  let's  know  the  worst,"  says  I.  "What 
did  he  do — laugh  at  the  wrong  place?" 

"He  go  to  sleep,"  announces  Inez,  indignant. 
"Snore!" 

"How  indiscreet,"  says  I. 

"Why  not  sleep?"  protests  Uncle  Nels. 

"But — but  Mister  Fairbanks  he  was  shootin' 
guns,  and — and  pushing  villain  in  face,  and  mak- 

250 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

ing  love  to  lovely  lady,"  insists  Inez.  "And  him, 
he  snore?  That  captain.  Huh!" 

"Do  I  gather,  Inez,  that  you  and  Captain 
Knute  had  words  over  his  lack  of  enthusiasm 
for  Mr.  Fairbanks?" 

"I  don't  say  nothing  to  that  man,  Trilby 
May,"  says  Inez.  "Never.  I — I  don't  want 
him  comin'  round  any  more.  He — he's  a  wash- 
out." 

"Sounds  final  and  decisive,"  says  I,  as  Inez 
starts  toward  the  stairs.  "I  should  say,  Uncle 
Nels,  that  Captain  Knute's  little  romance  had 
been  permanently  scuttled." 

"Wait!"  calls  out  Uncle  Nels,  to  her.  "I  give 
you  one  chance  more.  You  say  you  don't  like 
Cap'nOlsen?  You  no  marry  him?" 

"Not  until  I  go  crazy  in  the  head,"  declares 
Inez. 

"Foolish  girl!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "You'll  see. 
You  go  to  work,  you ! " 

And  with  that  he  shuffles  out,  shaking  his  head 
and  mumbling  to  himself. 

"Now  I  wonder  just  what  he  means  by  that?" 
says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "No  Uncle  Nels  can  boss 
me.  Say  I  should  marry  a  movie  snorer!  No." 

"I  get  your  point  of  view,  Inez,"  says  I,  "and 
I  can't  deny  but  what  I  sympathize  somewhat. 
But  that's  a  shifty  old  bird,  your  Uncle  Nels, 

251 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

and  his  last  remark  listened  ominous.  I  don't 
just  see  what  he  can  do,  though." 

At  least,  nothing  happened  that  evening.  The 
Cave  had  the  usual  summer  night's  business, 
and  when  Barry  drops  in,  as  usual,  he  has  no 
light  to  throw  on  the  situation.  He  hasn't  seen 
Uncle  Nels  for  several  days,  but  he  ejects  to 
hunt  him  up  in  the  morning. 

He  reports,  though,  that  he  couldn't  locate 
him.  And  another  day  goes  by. 

"Uncle  Nels  talk  in  his  hat,  I  guess,"  says  Inez. 
"I  no  care." 

It  was  only  the  next  morning,  though,  that  we 
were  aroused  early  by  hammering  overhead  and 
the  jabbering  of  a  gang  of  Dago  laborers. 

"Perhaps  the  owner  is  going  to  make  studios 
out  of  the  upper  stories,"  I  suggests.  "They're 
always  doing  that  to  these  old  shacks." 

But  when  I  started  out  to  investigate,  half  an 
hour  later,  I  saw  something  that  made  me  gasp. 
A  lot  of  men  were  tearing  off  the  roof  of  the 
building  and  taking  out  the  upper  window  cas- 
ings. I  hustled  around  until  I  found  the  foreman. 

"Say,  what's  the  idea?"  says  I.  "If  it  rains 
we  may  need  that  roof,  you  know." 

"No  you  won't,  miss,"  says  he.  "You'll  be 
moving." 

"Eh?"  says  I.     "Why?" 

"'Cause  we're  wrecking  the  building,"  says  he. 
252 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

"Wrecking  it?"  says  I. 

"Yep,"  says  he.  "Inside  of  a  week  all  there  '11 
be  left  will  be  a  hole  in  the  ground." 

"But,  my  good  man,"  says  I,  "you  can't  do 
that.  We  happen  to  be  running  a  restaurant  in 
the  basement.  You  simply  can't  wreck  the  place 
over  our  ears." 

" Can't,  eh ? "  says  he.    "You  watch  us,  girlie." 

And  that's  as  far  as  I  could  get  talking  to  this 
low-brow.  So  I  hurried  in  and  found  Inez  calmly 
brushing  her  hair. 

"Brace  yourself,  Inez,"  says  I,  "for  I've  got 
disturbing  news." 

"Yes-s-s,"  says  Inez. 

"They're  taking  the  place  apart,"  says  I. 
"There's  a  wrecking  crew  on  the  job." 

"How  foolish!"  says  Inez,  fixing  an  ear  puff 
in  position  and  patting  it  approving. 

"What  a  help  you  are,  Inez!"  says  I.  "See  if 
you  can  start  breakfast  while  I  try  to  get  Barry 
on  the  phone." 

I  caught  him  at  Miss  Wellby's  boarding  house, 
and  he  says  he'll  be  right  down.  He  arrived 
about  nine-thirty,  as  the  last  few  slates  came  off 
the  roof. 

"Stop  'em,  can't  you?"  says  I. 

"Fear  I  can't,"  says  Barry. 

"  But  I  thought  Uncle  Nels  held  a  lease  on  this 
place,"  says  I. 

253 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"So  he  did,"  says  Barry.  "But  now  he  owns 
the  building.  Bought  it  day  before  yesterday. 
I  only  found  out  last  night,  when  I  got  in  touch 
with  him.  He  said  something  about  making 
some  changes  down  here,  but  I  had  no  idea  he 
was  going  to  start  so  soon.  Let  me  have  a  talk 
with  that  foreman." 

Five  minutes  later  Barry  came  back  with  a 
blank  look  on  his  face.  "The  old  fox!"  says  he. 
"  He's  made  a  contract  for  a  rush  job  of  wrecking. 
Bought  off  the  other  tenants,  you  know,  and 
moved  'em  out  in  twenty-four  hours'  notice.  And 
so  long  as  the  basement  lease  is  in  his  name 
there's  nothing  to  be  done.  I  don't  understand." 

"I  do,"  says  I.  "He's  peeved  because  he 
brought  around  a  matrimonial  candidate  for 
Inez  and  she  turned  him  down  flat.  This  is  a 
clever  little  scheme  of  Uncle  Nel's  for  making 
her  take  the  other  choice — real  work." 

"He's  losing  all  the  money  he  put  into  buying 
out  The  Cave,  though,"  says  Barry. 

"Yes,"  says  I.  "But  I'm  beginning  to  get  a 
line  on  that  old  boy.  He'll  squeeze  a  dime  until 
his  thumb  looks  like  a  cameo  of  an  eagle,  but 
he'll  toss  away  a  check  for  a  few  thousand  as 
easy  as  if  it  was  a  cigarette  coupon.  Especially 
when  you  touch  that  stubborn  streak  of  his. 
There's  only  one  answer  to  this,  Barry;  it's  up 
to  us  to  make  a  quick  getaway." 

254 


INEZ  APPLIES  THE  ACID  TEST 

"If  you  could  find  another  basement  vacant," 
suggests  Barry,  "couldn't  you  open  up  there?" 

"On  a  combined  capital  of  what?"  says  I. 
"There'd  be  an  advance  payment  on  the  lease, 
the  moving  expenses,  three  or  four  days  out  to 
fix  up  a  new  joint,  and  probably  a  month  before 
our  old  customers  found  where  we'd  gone.  No, 
I  can't  see  it,  Barry.  I  expect  we've  simply  got 
to  quit." 

"The  old  pirate!"  says  Barry.  "To  spring  it 
on  you  like  this!" 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "But  all  along  I've  said 
that  old  boy  was  a  trick  uncle.  Here  comes  Inez 
now.  Watch  how  she  takes  it." 

"Take  what?"  asks  Inez. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  says  I,  "except  that  your 
Uncle  Nels  has  been  up  to  mischief.  Dirty  work 
at  the  cross  roads.  We're  evicted." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  never  missing  a  stroke  on 
the  gum. 

"It's  a  case  of  pack  and  git  before  night,"  says 
I.  "He's  bought  the  building  and  is  having  it 
pulled  down.  We're  plumb  overboard,  Inez.  At 
least,  we're  out  in  the  street,  with  no  more  home 
than  a  couple  of  rabbits.  And  your  soft  career 
as  The  White  Goddess  is  finished." 

At  which  Inez  merely  hunches  her  shoulders. 
"So?"  says  she.  "Oh,  well,  I  get  tired  of  this 
place.  Seeing  people  eat  all  time.  Fried  chicken 

255 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

every  night,  and  fresh  guys  gettin'  gay  when 
they  pay  checks.  Huh!" 

"  But  you  know  it  means  rustling  another  job," 
I  suggests. 

"Maybe  we  get  some  place  where  something 
goes  on,"  says  Inez. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "work,  for  instance." 

"I  no  care,"  says  Inez. 

"Isn't  that  perfectly  bully?"  says  Barry.  "In- 
victus,  eh?  Mistress  of  her  fate,  captain  of  her 
soul,  and — and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"I — I  no  like  captains,"  announces  Inez. 

"No,  she  doesn't,"  says  I.  "Don't  mention 
'em  again,  Barry." 

"But  why?"  he  asks. 

"They  snore  in  the  movies,"  says  I. 

And  by  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  we  were 
back  in  a  double  room  at  Miss  Wellby's  with 
nothing  definite  looming  in  the  future  except  a 
cold  meat  supper. 

"Speaking  of  your  dear  Uncle  Nels,  Inez,"  says 
I,  "I  expect  he's  all  right,  in  his  place." 

Inez  blinks  without  saying  a  word. 

"But  between  us,"  I  goes  on,  "his  place  isn't 
on  any  map  I  ever  saw.  Eh?" 


Chapter  XV 
Uncle  Nels  Gets  His  Turn 

""\X  7"ELL,  Inez,"  says  I,  after  three  days  of 
*   *     job  hunting,  and  no  pay  envelopes  yet 
in  sight,  "we  may  be  out  but  we're  not  down, 
are  we?" 

"My  feet  hurt  me,"  says  Inez,  in  that  subtle 
way  of  hers. 

"And  that's  no  trifle,  either,"  says  I,  "glancing 
at  her  gD's.  "On  the  toes  most,  eh  ?  I  was  sure 
it  wasn't  fallen  arches,  or  I  should  have  heard 
the  crash.  As  for  me,  I  have  blisters  mainly 
on  my  disposition,  with  a  few  raw  spots  on  my 
pride.  Honest,  Inez,  I'm  getting  so  I  hardly 
have  nerve  enough  to  look  an  office  manager  in 
the  eye." 

Of  course,  it's  right  in  the  middle  of  the  dull 
season.  I  wonder  if  Inez's  Uncle  Nels  figured  on 
that  when  he  put  the  skids  under  our  Greenwich 
Village  enterprise  by  buying  the  building  and 
starting  to  tear  it  down  without  warning.  Prob- 
ably he  did,  for  that  old  boy  doesn't  miss  many 
tricks. 

257 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Anyway,  we  found  ourselves  clean  overboard. 
Not  that  we  just  splashed  wildly  around  and 
called  for  help.  No.  We  hadn't  made  a  single 
panicky  motion  up  to  date.  I  had  promptly 
taken  Inez  by  the  hand  and  marched  her  up  and 
down  Broadway  and  side  streets  with  both  eyes 
wide  open.  We  had  tackled  managers  of  res- 
taurants, department  stores,  hotels,  and  beauty 
shops,  admitting  how  good  we  could  be  in  any 
line  under  consideration.  We  had  even  tried  to 
ease  into  the  chorus  of  a  new  girl  show  and  asked 
to  be  put  on  as  extras  in  Long  Island  movie 
studios. 

But  say,  the  demand  for  a  cross-mated  team 
of  classy  young  lady  assistants  seems  to  be  sub- 
normal. Sometimes  we  couldn't  even  get  past 
the  office  boy,  and  our  high  score  was  when  we 
had  our  names  taken  by  private  secretaries  who 
yawned  and  hung  the  slips  on  a  hook. 

So  here  the  other  night  when  we  called  in  Barry 
Platt,  the  demon  journalist,  as  a  member  of  the 
strategy  board,  all  I  had  to  report  was  that  we 
were  up  against  it. 

"New  York  doesn't  seem  to  need  us  any  more, 
Barry,"  says  I.  "It's  a  bit  awkward,  you  know." 

He's  a  cheerful  soul,  though,  Barry  Platt.  He 
says  we're  bound  to  strike  something  soon,  that 
business  conditions  will  buck  up  in  a  week  or  so, 
and  that  I'm  not  to  worry.  "I  don't  believe 

258  " 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

Uncle  Nels  would  stand  by  and  let  you  really  go 
hungry,"  he  adds. 

"Neither  do  I,"  says  I.  "He'd  sit  down  to  it. 
He's  a  hard  old  pill,  that  Uncle  Nels  person, 
take  it  from  me.  We've  been  talking  him  over, 
Inez  and  I,  and  we're  off  him  for  life." 

But  Barry  shakes  his  head.  "He  has  his  good 
points,"  he  protests. 

"And  I  suppose  one  of  'em,"  says  I,  "is  this 
passion  of  his  for  wishing  real  toil  on  his  only 
niece  ?  Cute,  kindly  little  notion  of  his,  eh  ?  Say, 
where  does  he  get  that  stuff?" 

"Perhaps  I  can  throw  a  little  light  on  that," 
says  Barry.  "He's  told  me  more  or  less  about 
himself,  you  know.  Has  a  lot  of  old-fashioned 
ideas,  and  this  is  one.  You  see,  he  always  had 
to  work  hard  as  a  youngster,  and  he  believes 
other  young  folks  ought  to  do  the  same.  Girls 
especially.  Or  else  get  married  and  keep  house." 

"And  because  Inez  wouldn't  have  the  first 
bone-head  tugboat  captain  he  tows  in,"  says  I, 
"he  hands  us  this  deal.  Doesn't  even  give  us 
the  regulation  two  weeks'  pay  that  ought  to  go 
with  a  cold  chuck  out.  Say,  that's  something  I 
mean  to  tackle  him  for,  Barry.  I  wish  you'd 
hunt  him  up  to-morrow  and  mention  it." 

"I've  already  mentioned  as  much,"  says  he, 
"but  it  didn't  seem  to  take." 

"Then  I'll  put  it  up  to  him  myself,"  says  I. 
259 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  think  I  could  be  fairly  eloquent  on  the  sub- 
ject. So  if  you'll  just  give  me  his  new  address — " 

"Sorry,"  says  Barry,  "but  I  haven't  the  least 
idea  where  he  moved  to  the  last  time.  He's  been 
calling  me  up  at  the  office  lately  whenever  he 
had  anything  to  say  about  business  affairs,  and 
now  that  The  Cave  has  been  closed  out  I  don't 
know  when  I'll  hear  from  him  again.  Perhaps 
not  at  all." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "There's  your  rich  relation 
for  you,  Inez!  Aren't  you  glad  we  came  all  the 
way  from  Duluth  to  hunt  him  up?" 

Inez  is  leaning  back  placid  in  one  of  Miss 
Wellby's  ancient  front  parlor  armchairs,  chewing 
her  gum  with  a  stroke  as  regular  as  a  pump 
engine.  "He's  a  poor  fish,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  she. 

"Hardly  a  close  description,"  says  I.  "He's 
a  hard-boiled  old  sinner  who  plays  a  mighty 
shifty  game.  Keeps  track  of  us,  but  don't  let 
us  get  any  line  on  him.  Maybe  he  fancies  him- 
self as  a  man  of  mystery.  What  about  it,  Barry  ? " 

"Yes,  I  should  say  he  did,"  says  Barry.  "Ap- 
pears to  be  a  fad  of  his  to  keep  his  affairs  to 
himself." 

Somehow  that  got  me  propping  my  chin.  It's 
a  pose  I  do  very  well,  just  like  the  lovely  young 
ladies  on  magazine  covers  when  the  artist  wants 
'em  to  register  day  dreams  or  girlish  fancies. 

Only  with  me  it  indicates  that  I'm  indulging  in 

260 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

deep  thought,  such  as  whether  I'd  better  try 
altering  the  skirt  of  my  street  suit  or  blow  my- 
self to  a  new  outfit.  But  this  time  it  had  to  do 
with  Uncle  Nels. 

"Do  you  know,  Barry,"  says  I,  "I'm  getting 
curious  about  the  old  bird.  Come  to  think  him 
over,  he  has  a  lot  of  odd  ways  about  him.  Let's 
see,  Inez,  he  must  have  started  about  on  a  level 
with  the  rest  of  your  folks,  didn't  he?  Wasn't 
rich  when  you  first  heard  of  him,  was  he?" 

"No,"  says  Inez.    "Poor  like  us." 

"And  then,  as  I  understand,"  I  goes  on,  "he 
got  in  on  some  fat  stumpage  contracts — state 
school  lands — and  cleaned  up  a  wad.  After 
which  he  ceases  to  be  a  regular  visitor  at  the  old 
home,  and  the  next  you  know  he's  disappeared, 
changed  his  name,  and  faded  from  view.  It  was 
only  by  a  long  shot,  too,  that  we  ran  across  him 
here  in  New  York.  And  since  then  he's  been 
Hitting  back  and  forth  across  our  path  like  some 
foxy  old  bat  at  twilight.  Is  he  still  single,  I 
wonder?" 

Barry  thinks  he  must  be. 

"But  where  and  how  does  he  live?"  I  asks. 
"And  especially  what  does  he  do  with  all  his 
money?" 

Barry  shakes  his  head. 

"I  know  what  he's  going  to  do  with  part  of 

it,"  says  I.     "He's  due  to  let  go  of  two  weeks' 

261 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

wages  as  a  forfeit  for  giving  us  such  a  swift  re- 
lease. That  is,  if  I  have  any  luck  in  trailing  him 
down.  Come  now,  Barry  boy;  you're  more  or 
less  bright  in  the  head.  How  can  I  get  a  line  on 
him?" 

Barry  wrinkles  his  fair  white  brow  and  runs 
his  fingers  through  his  slick  light  hair,  but  pro- 
duces no  results. 

"Where  does  he  bank?"  I  asks.  "Haven't 
you  ever  seen  one  of  his  checks  r " 

"Oh,  I  say!"  says  Barry,  "that's  an  idea,  you 
know.  The  Park  National.  And  a  friend  of 
mine  is  a  bookkeeper  down  there — Chick  Wales. 
He  could  look  it  up  for  me.  Might  know  without 
going  to  the  books.  Wonderful  memory,  Chick. 
Maybe  I  could  get  him  on  the  phone  now.  He 
belongs  to  a  little  club  downtown  and  generally 
takes  dinner  there.  I'll  have  a  try." 

"Do,"  says  I.  "Tell  him  a  long-lost  niece 
wants  to  find  Uncle  Nels  and  plant  a  loving  kiss 
on  his  bald  spot." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  as  Barry  starts  for  the 
phone.  "  I  don't  go  kissin'  him,  never." 

"Mere  figure  of  speech,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Any- 
way, why  be  particular  what  you  tell  a  bank 
clerk.  He  wouldn't  believe  you  unless  it  was 
certified.  And  if  I  can  locate  Uncle  Nels — " 

"I  no  care  where  he  is,"  breaks  in  Inez. 

"Yes,  I  get  you,"  says  I.  "But  I  do — about 
262 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

fifty  dollars'  worth.  And  here's  Barry  with 
news.  I  can  see  it  in  his  eye." 

Sure  enough,  he  had  the  street  and  number. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  Chick  had  a  great  memory?" 
says  he.  "He  recalled  the  change  of  address. 
But  what  now?" 

"A  little  sleuthing  party,  Barry,"  says  I. 
"Want  to  be  counted  in?" 

"Why,  yes,"  says  he.    "Inez  going,  too?" 

"No,  I  hardly  think  she'd  be  much  help,"  says 
I.  "Besides,  she's  not  on  good  terms  with  her 
feet.  Suppose  we  make  it  a  twosome." 

Which  we  did,  and  half  an  hour  later  we  were 
interviewing  a  fuzzy-haired  West  Indian  elevator 
juggler  in  the  marble-tiled  lobby  of  a  big  new 
Madison  Avenue  apartment  house.  No,  he  didn't 
know  whether  Mr.  Nelson  Swazey  was  in  or  out. 
We  could  put  in  a  call  at  the  phone  desk. 

"Oh,  but  we  want  to  surprise  dear  Uncle  Nels," 
says  I.  "Just  shoot  us  up,  Percey,  that's  a  good 
fellow." 

"Sure!"  says  Percey,  swapping  a  grin  for  my 
crooked  smile.  "Ninth  floor,  number  three." 

But  when  we  pushed  the  button  at  Number 
Three  the  door  is  opened  only  a  crack  by  a 
stocky,  red-faced  young  gent  with  a  blond  pom- 
padour and  a  suspicous  squint  in  his  stupid 
eyes. 

"What  you  want?"  he  demands. 
18  263 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"We  would  like  to  call  on  Mr.  Swazey,"  says 
Barry,  polite. 

"Who  you  are?"  insists  Squinty. 

"Just  old  friends,"  says  I. 

He's  some  grand  little  outer  guard,  though. 
That  don't  convince  him  a  bit.  "Mr.  Swazey 
got  no  old  friends,"  says  he.  "He  don't  see 
nobody." 

"But  listen,  old  dear,"  says  I.  "We're  not 
after  the  family  jewels,  or  anything  like  that. 
We  simply  want  to — " 

That's  as  far  as  I  got  when  the  door  slammed. 

"Gr-r-r!"  says  I.  "Some  watch-dog  Uncle 
Nels  has  there.  All  he  needs  is  a  spiked  collar 
and  a  license  tag." 

"Anyway,"  says  Barry,  "his  decision  that  we 
don't  get  in  seems  to  be  rather  final." 

"Still,"  says  I,  "I  do  hate  to  be  shunted  just 
by  the  hired  help.  Quite  a  substantial  door, 
isn't  it?  Not  even  a  transom.  And  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  have  a  jimmy  in  your  pocket;  eh, 
Barry?" 

"Looks  as  if  we'd  have  to  quit,"  says  he. 

"But  now  I  am  curious,"  says  I.  "Let's  stick 
around  in  the  hallway.  We  can  let  on  to  be  wait- 
ing for  the  elevator  if  anyone  comes  along.  Must 
be  rather  spiffy  quarters  the  old  boy  has." 

"I'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  pay  a  month's  rent 
out  of  a  year's  salary,"  says  Barry.  "Let's  see, 

264 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

this  is  probably  an  inside  apartment,  opening  on 
a  big  court." 

"Why  the  red  light  down  at  that  end  of  the 
hall?"  I  asks. 

"Fire  exit,"  says  Barry. 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "Fire  escape?  Say,  I  hadn't 
thought  of  that  way." 

"You  don't  mean  to  try  getting  in  by  that?" 
gasps  Barry. 

"Uh-huh!"saysl. 

"Why,  Trilby  May  Dodge!"  says  he. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  says  I.  "He  might  accuse  me 
of  breaking  and  entering,  or  trespass  in  the 
first  degree,  or  assault  and  robbery.  But  say, 
when  I  get  real  curious  I  don't  stop  for  little 
things  like  that.  You  needn't  mix  in  this  if 
you're  chilly  below  the  ankles,  but  I'm  here  to 
call  on  Uncle  Nels,  and  if  the  front  door  is 
blocked  then  I'm  willing  to  take  a  chance  on  the 
back  way." 

"Of  course,"  says  Barry,  "I  can't  let  you  do 
this  alone.  That  hall  window  looks  as  if  it  was 
open." 

It  not  only  looked  so,  but  it  was,  and  a  nice 
open-work  iron  platform  ran  directly  across  the 
building  outside.  I  made  the  step  up  as  grace- 
fully as  could  be  expected  in  a  tight  skirt,  and 
Barry  followed.  We  took  a  look  down  to  the 
little  fountain  and  dusty  evergreens  in  the  court 

265 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

below,  and  then  glanced  around  at  the  rows  of 
windows,  some  lighted,  but  most  of  'em  dark, 
for  this  class  of  tenants  aren't  the  kind  who  use 
New  York  as  a  summer  resort.  Anyway,  nobody 
seemed  to  be  peeking  out  at  us. 

"Here  are  his  windows,  at  the  left,"  whispers 
Barry.  "Lighted  up,  too.  But  the  shade  is 
pulled  down." 

I  felt  my  way  along  until  I  was  just  outside 
the  first  window.  "No  screen,"  says  I.  "Now 
let's  see  how  gently  I  can  run  up  that  shade." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  comes  from  Barry. 

He  isn't  much  on  taking  a  chance.  He's  been 
brought  up  too  careful,  I  expect.  But  I'm  apt 
to  do  what  comes  into  my  head  first  and  think 
it  over  afterwards.  I  slipped  my  hand  over  the 
sill,  got  a  firm  grip  on  the  cord,  and  eased  up  the 
shade. 

And  at  that,  what  I  saw  nearly  made  me  let 
it  go  on  the  run.  You'd  never  guess  in  a  million 
years.  Three  bath  tubs!  It  wasn't  a  regular 
bathroom,  either.  Too  big  for  that.  And  other- 
wise furnished  like  a  parlor;  three  or  four  stuffed 
chairs  and  a  deep  Davenport  covered  with  linen 
slips,  a  mahogany  table  or  two,  and  a  baby 
grand  piano. 

But  most  of  the  furniture  had  been  pushed 
into  the  corners,  and  there,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  were  these  three  whaling  big  white  porce- 

266 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

lain  bathtubs,  all  connected  with  nickeled  pipes, 
and  all  two-thirds  full  of  water.  Also,  bending 
over  the  tubs  were  Squinty  and  Uncle  Nels.  I'll 
hasten  to  add  that  they  were  more  or  less  clothed. 
Squinty  had  on  the  same  white  duck  jacket  he 
wore  when  he  greeted  us  so  coldly  at  the  door. 
But  Uncle  Nels  was  in  easy  negligee.  That  is 
he  had  on  his  trousers  and  suspenders,  but  he 
was  in  his  socks  and  had  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled 
up. 

''What — what  the  deuce  are  they  up  to?" 
whispers  Barry  in  my  ear. 

"Christening,  baptism,  or  a  swimming  lesson, 
are  my  guesses,"  I  whispers  back.  "Let's  watch." 

They  seemed  to  be  poking  something  around 
in  the  nearest  tub,  and  very  busy  about  it.  Just 
what  it  was,  though,  we  couldn't  see,  although 
I  nearly  got  my  head  into  the  room  in  the  at- 
tempt. Finally  Squinty  elbows  Uncle  Nels  to 
one  side  and  growls  impatient:  "Nah!  You 
don't  fix  it  like  I  told  you." 

"I  do  so!"  protests  Uncle  Nels. 

"I  say  no,"  Squinty  contradicts.  "Old  herring 
head !  Lemme  show  you." 

"Herring  head  you!"  comes  back  Uncle  Nels. 
"Show,  then." 

At  which  Squinty  reaches  down  and  lifts  out 
a  toy  boat  about  a  foot  long  and  proceeds  to 

jiggle  some  of  the  machinery.    Then  he  touches 

267 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

off  a  match  and  the  thing  starts  whirring  away 
merrily. 

"See?"  he  demands. 

"Well,  well!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Make  it 
sail.  No,  lemme  do  it." 

"Ah,  you!"  says  Squinty,  giving  him  a  shove. 
"Watch  me." 

At  which  I  nudges  Barry.  "The  boys  don't 
get  along  very  well,  eh?"  says  I.  "Ought  to 
have  more  than  one  toy  between  'em." 

"They  have,"  whispers  Barry.  "Look  on  the 
floor  and  tables." 

Sure  enough,  on  glancing  around  I  could  count 
more  than  a  dozen  model  boats  of  all  descriptions. 
Some  were  little  sailing  yachts,  some  were  like 
battleships,  and  others  were  torpedo  boats  or 
submarines.  All  seemed  to  be  mechanical  toys. 
Hence  the  three  bathtubs. 

But  the  next  thing  we  knew  another  squabble 
had  started  between  Squinty  and  Uncle  Nels. 
The  old  boy  was  insisting  that  it  was  his  turn  to 
sail  the  little  steamer  and  Squinty  was  telling 
him  he  didn't  know  how  to  fix  it  right.  Uncle 
Nels  had  made  a  grab  at  the  boat  and  almost 
slipped  into  the  tub.  And  the  whole  thing  was 
so  absurd  that  I  just  had  to  let  out  that  chuckle. 
So  before  I  knew  it  they'd  both  rushed  over  to 
the  window  and  discovered  us. 

"Hah!"  says  Squinty.  "That  red-head  girl!" 
268  » 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

"You're  color  blind,  Percey,"  says  I.  "Natu- 
ral henna." 

"You,  hey?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Trilby  May! 
And  Mr.  Platt.  You  come  to  laugh  at  me,  do 
you?" 

"Well,  you  couldn't  expect  us  to  weep  over 
an  act  like  that,  could  you?"  says  I.  "My,  but 
you  were  funny  when  you  nearly  got  ducked. 
And  as  long  as  we're  here,  you  don't  mind  if 
we  come  in,  do  you?  Thanks.  Pile  in,  Barry. 
Say,  what's  the  idea,  Uncle  Nels?  Did  you 
have  'em  fix  up  this  temporary  yacht  basin  for 

you?" 

"Should  I  put  'em  out?"  urges  Squinty,  who's 
been  scowling  at  us,  hostile. 

"So  you  could  hog  the  playthings,  eh?"  says 
I.  "Say,  Uncle  Nels,  who  is  this  disagreeable 
blonde  person  who  bosses  you  around  so  free?" 

"He — he's  Alex.,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "He  was 
woods  cook  for  me  once,  and  when  I  find  him  on 
the  docks  here  I  hire  him  as  man.  But  he — he  get 
too  fresh." 

"I  should  say  he  did,"  I  agrees.  "Why  don't 
you  fire  him,  then?" 

Uncle  Nels  shakes  his  head.  "Nobody  knows 
how  to  fix  boats,"  says  he. 

"Pooh!"  says  I.  "I'll  bet  Barry  and  I  could 
make  'em  go  just  as  well.  Go  ahead.  Give  him 
the  run." 

269 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Uncle  Nels  hesitates.  "You — you  laugh  at 
me,"  he  objects. 

"Honest  we  wouldn't,"  says  I.  "And  we'd 
let  you  do  the  sailing  all  by  yourself.  It's  a 
shame  the  way  he  bullies  you,  calling  you  names 
and  all." 

"Yes,"  says  Uncle  Nels,  his  washed-out  blue 
eyes  flashing.  "Herring  head!  Say,  Alex,  you 
get  out.  Quick." 

Alex  grumbled,  but  he  changed  his  coat  and 
went. 

"You — you  think  I'm  foolish  old  man,  eh?" 
says  Uncle  Nels,  hanging  his  head  sheepish  and 
pointing  to  the  tubs. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "I've  seen  plutes 
spend  their  money  on  sillier  things  than  toy 
boats.  Chorus  squabs,  for  instance;  and  buying 
flocks  of  limousines;  and  owning  half  a  dozen 
homes.  This  can't  be  such  an  expensive  fad,  and 
if  it's  something  you're  crazy  about — " 

"I  yust  like  to  do  it,  that's  all,"  he  breaks  in. 
"When  I  was  a  boy —  Well,  you  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Go  on,"  I  urges.  "Let's  hear  it,  and  maybe 
I  will." 

He  doesn't  seem  to  know  whether  to  spill  any- 
thing more  or  not.  Sort  of  a  pathetic  old  party 
he  seemed,  standing  there  with  his  chin  down 
and  his  shoulders  sagged,  glancing  wistful  and 

270 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

half  afraid  from  Barry  to  me.  Of  course,  in  his 
woolen  socks  and  baggy  trousers,  and  with  that 
tin  toy  in  his  hands,  he  was  absurd.  But  I 
couldn't  help  feeling  a  little  sorry  for  him.  Per- 
haps I  gave  him  an  encouraging  smile. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "when  I'm  a  boy  I  don't 
play  at  all.  Never.  Back  in  Sweden,  you  know. 
All  the  time  I  work.  In  fish  packery  when  I  am 
only  nine.  Then  I  have  to  mend  nets.  By  twelve 
years  I  am  sent  out  in  fish  boat.  We  go  at  night 
— row  on  oars,  bail  water,  pull  in  heavy  seine. 
Winter  and  summer.  No  school,  no  play.  So 
I  run  off  to  United  States.  I  work  in  the  woods 
— lumber  camp.  I  save  money.  I  get  in  business 
for  myself.  I  have  some  luck.  They  say  I  get 
rich.  So  I  quit.  Now  I  am  old  man.  I  want  to 
play  and — and  you  laugh  at  me." 

That's  all  there  was  to  it,  but  honest,  it  got 
me  gulpy  in  the  throat.  For  a  minute  all  I 
could  do  was  to  stand  there  and  gawp  at  him. 
Then  I  walked  over  and  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"No,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "Not  since  that 
first  chuckle,  when  I  didn't  understand.  But  I 
get  you  now.  And  I'm  not  laughing.  In  fact,  I 
never  felt  less  like  it.  And  we're  strong  for  this 
boat  stuff,  Barry  and  I.  We  want  to  see  how 
they  all  work,  don't  we,  Barry?** 

"Of  course,"  says  Barry. 
271 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"And  you're  going  to  show  us,  aren't  you, 
Uncle  Nels?"  I  insists. 

"Sure,"  says  he.    "But  you — you  must  help." 

"That's  my  front  name,"  says  I.  "Let's  start 
with  one  of  the  big  ones.  The  battleship,  eh?" 

Say,  you  should  have  seen  him  go  to  it.  Like 
a  kid  exhibiting  his  Christmas  gifts.  Inside  of 
half  an  hour  we  had  all  three  tubs  full  of  the  tin 
boats,  chugging  around,  bumping  into  each  other, 
and  churning  up  the  water.  We  had  races  and 
naval  battles.  And  at  times  all  three  of  us  would 
be  squatting  on  the  floor  tinkering  the  engine  of 
some  toy  steamer  that  had  gone  balky.  Uncle 
Nels  got  as  excited  as  if  he  was  maneuvering  the 
Atlantic  Squadron.  His  mild  old  eyes  beamed 
and  now  and  then  he'd  let  out  a  shrill,  piping 
laugh.  It  was  some  party. 

"I  buy  new  ones  to-morrow,"  he  says  as  we 
start  to  leave.  "Maybe  you — you  come  again." 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "We  11  bring  Inez  next 
time." 

"She — she  wouldn't  laugh?"  he  asks. 

"If  she  does  we'll  push  her  into  one  of  the 
tubs,"  says  I.  "She'd  make  some  splash, 
wouldn't  she?" 

And  Uncle  Nels  actually  indulges  in  a  giggle. 

It  wasn't  until  I  was  nearly  home  that  I  re- 
membered what  I'd  gone  to  hunt  up  Uncle  Nels 
for. 

272 


UNCLE  NELS  GETS  HIS  TURN 

"What  do  you  think,  Barry?"  says  I.  "With 
all  the  opening  I  had  I  never  peeped  about  that 
fifty." 

"I  shouldn't  worry  about  that,  Trilby  May," 
says  he.  "My  guess  is  that  with  the  start  you've 
got  on  Uncle  Nels  he's  going  to  shed  fifties  rather 
freely  before  he's  through." 

"I  mean  to  do  my  best  to  help  Inez  train  her 
uncle,"  says  I,  "even  if  I  have  to  suggest  three 
more  bathtubs." 


Chapter  XVI 
Sleuthing  With  Trilby  May 

"TISTEN,  Inez,"  says   I.     "This   is   no   time 

•*"*'  to  pull  that  mule  imitation  of  yours.  I'll 
admit  you  do  it  well — too  well  as  a  rule.  But  for 
the  love  of  Mary  Pickford  lay  off  it  now." 

And  Inez  replies  eloquent  with  a  slow  roll  of 
her  gray  eyes,  as  she  shifts  the  spearmint  cud 
from  port  to  starboard.  Which  means  that  her 
mind  is  still  in  a  plaster  cast.  But  I'm  quite 
used  to  going  hoarse  trying  to  make  Miss  Peter- 
sen  see  a  point. 

"I  hope  they  never  get  you  on  a  jury,  Inez," 
says  I,  "for  if  they  do,  equal  suffrage  is  going  to 
get  another  hard  jolt,  and  the  Nineteenth  Amend- 
ment isn't  any  too  popular  now." 

"I  don't  wanna  go  see  Uncle  Nels,"  protests 
Inez.  "That  dumbbell!" 

"Oh,  come  now!"  says  I.  "Don't  be  too  hard 
on  the  old  boy,  just  because  he  has  developed  a 
fad  for  sailing  tin  steamers  in  a  triple  set  of  bath- 
tubs. It's  an  innocent  indoor  sport,  after  ail." 

"Foolish,"  insists  Inez. 
274 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  don't  claim  it's  a  highbrow  partime,"  says 
1,  "like  spinning  a  toddle-top,  or  fly  fishing  in  a 
stocked  lake,  or  playing  bridge  whist  with  grand- 
mother. But  why  not  overlook  it?  Just  remem- 
ber, Inez,  that  for  the  third  time  Barry  Platt 
and  I  have  retrieved  this  trick  uncle  of  yours, 
and  that  at  last  we  seem  to  have  him  where  he 
will  almost  sit  up  and  beg.  With  a  little  intelli- 
gent help  from  his  favorite  niece  we  could  have 
him  quite  tame.  True,  he's  a  bit  odd  in  his 
ways,  and  not  much  to  look  at,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  he  is  a  rich  uncle.  So  let's  go  around 
and  be  nice  to  him  while  he's  in  the  right  mood." 

"He  ain't  nice  to  us  when  he  queers  our  good 
business,  is  he?"  demands  Inez. 

Which  brought  us  right  back  to  the  starting 
post,  with  no  ground  gained.  More  than  ever, 
it  seemed,  I  had  Inez  on  my  hands;  and,  with 
one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  of  blonde  balki- 
ness  as  a  handicap  weight,  I  wasn't  eager  to 
tackle  any  extra  hurdles.  Yet  it  was  just  then 
that  our  friend  Barry  comes  crashing  in  with 
complications. 

"Why  so  wild  in  the  eye,  Barry?"  I  asks,  as 
he  pauses  in  his  dash  up  Miss  Wellby's  front 
steps.  "Have  they  made  you  London  corre- 
spondent, or  has  the  managing  editor  wished  you 
good-by  ? " 

"It — it's  my  aunt,"  says  he.  "She's  very  ill." 
275 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"The  one  in  Utica,  who  brought  you  up?'* 
says  I. 

Barry  nods.  "They've  sent  for  me  to  come,'* 
he  goes  on,  "and  I  must  catch  the  ten  o'clock 
express.  It's  tough  luck." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  1,  soothing,  "perhaps  auntie 
will  pull  through  and  be  a  lot  better  by  the  time 
you  get  there.  They  often  do." 

"But  that  isn't  it,"  says  Barry.  "I've  got  to 
leave  just  as  I'm  working  up  a  perfect  whale  of 
a  news  story." 

"Why,  you  cold-blooded  young  brute!"  says  I. 

"Don't  say  that,  Trilby  May,"  he  protests. 
"You  don't  understand.  Really,  this  is  the  big- 
gest yarn  I've  ever  had  a  whack  at,  and  if  I 
could  only  stay  and  land  it  I'd  be  in  strong  at 
the  office.  Oh,  wouldn't  I!  Say,  do  you  know 
what  I've  run  across?" 

"The  missing  witness  in  the  Loudman  divorce 
case?"  is  my  guess. 

"Better  than  that,"  says  he.  "I've  located 
the  Queen  of  the  Coke  Runners." 

"Sounds  like  the  title  of  an  Eighth  Avenue 
movie  feature,"  says  I.  "Is  this  crook  stuff 
such  big  news  as  all  that?" 

"What  if  the  lady  happens  to  be  Princess  Chu, 
niece  of  the  Chinese  Minister,  and  is  playing  her 
game  right  from  the  embassy?"  demands  Barry, 
whispering  excited. 

276 


N 

SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"Does  listen  sort  of  thrilling,"  I  admits. 
"How'd  you  come  to  dig  up  all  that?" 

"Just  a  lucky  break,"  says  Barry.  "I  was 
getting  material  for  a  Sunday  special — a  grind 
about  the  spread  of  chop  suey  joints — so  I 
dropped  into  one  of  them  on  Forty-second  Street 
for  a  plate  of  chow  main  and  a  little  chat  with 
the  boss.  While  I  was  there  in  comes  this  zippy 
female  with  the  slanting  eyebrows,  the  high  face 
coloring,  and  the  pointed  chin.  I  noticed  how 
she  had  'em  all  jumping  around.  Seemed  to  own 
the  place.  'Who's  all  this?'  I  asked.  Then  the 
Chink  confided  that  she  was  Princess  Chu  taking 
a  little  trip  incog.  'Ah,  feed  that  to  some  tourist 
slummer,  Charlie/  says  I.  'If  she  was  a  sure- 
enough  princess  she  wouldn't  be  in  a  chow  joint 
like  this.'  But  he  only  hunches  his  shoulders 
and  walks  off." 

"Well,  was  she?  "I  asks. 

"Wait,"  says  Barry.  "Pretty  soon  I  saw  the 
boss  open  a  big  safe  and  take  out  a  black  suitcase 
— one  of  these  classy,  overnight  bags.  The  lock 
was  sealed  with  a  big  gob  of  yellow  wax.  He  put 
it  on  the  counter  so  that  she  could  inspect  it. 
Then  she  waved  for  a  waiter  to  lug  it  down  to  a 
taxi.  And  as  it  was  carried  past  I  spotted  a  gold 
dragon  painted  on  one  side.  The  embassy  mark, 
you  know.  But  of  course,  all  that  might  have 
been  faked.  So  I  went  to  a  phone  booth  aod 

277 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

called  up  Jimmy  Gordon,  who's  been  chief  of 
our  Washington  bureau  for  years,  but  who's  in 
town  for  a  few  days  lay-off.  He  says  there  is  a 
Princess  Chu,  all  right,  and  that  she's  quite  a 
lively  girl.  I  gave  him  a  tale  about  wanting  to 
interview  her  on  the  short  skirt  craze,  and  asked 
how  I  could  get  in  touch  with  her,  so  he  told  me 
who  to  wire  and  I  got  word  back  that  the  princess 
had  left  yesterday  to  spend  the  week  end  with 
friends  in  the  Berkshires.  Couldn't  make  much 
out  of  that,  of  course,  and  I  might  have  dropped 
the  whole  thing  if  I  hadn't  drifted  into  our  police 
headquarters'  branch  and  found  Chub  Collins 
all  stirred  up  over  a  rumor  that  the  drug  squad 
was  on  trail  of  a  big  shipment  of  opium  that  was 
said  to  have  been  recently  smuggled  in — nearly 
fifty  pounds.  It  had  been  offered  for  sale  by  a 
young  woman  who  looked  like  a  Chinese.  And 
she  had  it  in  a  black  suitcase!  Well,  there  you 
are!" 

"A  case  of  putting  two  and  two,  eh?"  says  I. 
"Sounds  simple  enough.  And  that's  quite  a  lot 
of  opium,  isn't  it,  Barry?" 

"I'll  say  it  is,"  says  he.  "Why,  it's  enough 
to  supply  all  the  addicts  in  this  section  for  a 
month,  and  it's  worth —  Well,  I  don't  know 
how  much;  half  a  million,  perhaps.  And  think 
of  the  row  that  will  start  when  it  comes  out  that 
this  is  an  inside  job,  with  a  princess  playing  the 

278 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

star  part.  Wowey!  That  is,  if  I  could  stay  to 
spring  the  story,  which  I  can't.  Very  likely  the 
act  will  be  all  over  before  I  can  get  back  and  the 
lady  will  have  disappeared.  Isn't  that  just  my 
luck?" 

"But  say,  Barry,"  I  suggests,  "isn't  there 
some  one  you  could  leave  the  tale  with,  and  have 
'em  work  it  up  while  you're  gone?" 

"And  have  the  other  fellow  get  all  the  credit?" 
says  Barry.  "What's  the  use?  No,  I've  just 
got  to  let  my  big  chance  slide.  Besides,  I  haven't 
time  to  do  a  thing  but  pack  my  bag  and  hike  for 
the  station." 

"You  hadn't  thought  of  putting  me  on  as  an 
understudy,  eh?"  I  asks. 

"You,  Trilby  May!"  gasps  Barry. 

"What  sublime  confidence  you  have  in  me!" 
says  I.  "It's  too  touching.  But  really,  you 
know,  I'm  not  quite  a  dead  one,  Barry  boy.  I 
have  occasional  spasms  of  almost  human  intelli- 
gence. Of  course,  I'm  no  journalistic  sleuth 
hound,  such  as  Barry  Sherlock  Platt;  but  I  can 
find  my  way  about  town  without  the  aid  of  a 
hotel  guidebook,  and  I  might  be  able  to  follow  a 
perfectly  plain  clue,  especially  when  there's  one 
of  my  own  sex  in  the  case." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  says  Barry.  "That's  an  idea. 
You  might  dig  up  something  new  about  her. 
Anyway,  maybe  you  could  keep  track  of  her  if 
19  279 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

I  told  you  just  where  to  go.  She'll  probably 
show  up  again  at  the  suey  joint — perhaps  to- 
night. That  seems  to  be  her  headquarters.  And 
from  what  I've  told  you  about  her  looks — " 

"Photographic,"  says  I.  "You're  a  vivid  de- 
scriber,  Barry.  I'm  sure  I'd  know  her.  And  I 
would  like  to  help  you  out." 

"You're  a  good  pal,  Trilby  May,"  says  he.  "I 
— I've  felt  that  all  along.  Somehow  it  seems  as 
if —  Well,  you  get  me  ?  Like  that  old  evolution 
thing.  You  remember?  'When  I  was  a  king  in 
Babylon,  and  you — ' " 

"No,  no,  Barry,"  says  I.  "When  I  was  a, 
Rolls-Royce  limousine,  and  you  were  a  flivver 
coupe." 

Then  we  swapped  giggles  and  Barry  wrote 
down  the  number  of  the  chop  suey  joint,  and  his 
Utica  address. 

"If  it  breaks  big,"  says  he,  "you  might  wire 
me,  and  perhaps  I  could  sneak  off  for  a  day  or  so. 
Be  careful,  though.  Some  of  these  Chinks  are 
bad  actors.  Mustn't  let  'em  get  onto  you." 

"Don't  worry,"  says  I.  "I'm  a  shifty  per- 
former myself  when  I  have  to  be.  And  I  might 
take  Inez  along  as  a  shock  absorber.  Hurry  on 
now,  and  leave  it  to  me." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  always  had  an  idea 
I  could  do  this  reporter  stuff  if  I  had  a  chance. 
Not  the  writing,  maybe,  but  trailing  down  the 

280 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

facts.  I've  heard  Barry  tell  how  he  had  worked 
up  the  details  of  some  of  his  stories,  and  it  struck 
me  he  wasn't  any  too  clever  at  it.  Where  he 
shines  is  dressing  things  up  so  they  read  well. 
He's  a  star  at  that/  You  ought  to  hear  some  of 
the  one-act  plays  he's  done.  Anyways,  some  one 
ought  to  hear  'em;  but  up  txxdate  nobody  has,  I 
believe. 

So  while  he  piles  into  a  sleeper  bound  for  Utica, 
I  gathers  up  Inez  and  starts  for  this  Forty-second 
Street  suey  emporium. 

"How  you  know  I  like  that  Chink  stuff?" 
objects  Inez.  "I  never  tried  it." 

"Nor  I,"  says  I.  "But  we're  billed  to  con- 
sume several  samples  of  it  before  the  evening  is 
over,  and  I'm  banking  on  you,  Inez,  to  do  the 
heavy  gastronomy.  It's  your  specialty,  you 
know." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  indicating  that  she  sus- 
pects I'm  kidding  her,  but  isn't  quite  sure. 

"First,  though,"  I  goes  on,  "I  must  drop  in  for 
a  minute  on  your  Uncle  Nels.  I  promised  him 
we'd  be  around  and  he'll  be  looking  for  us.  I'll 
have  to  give  him  some  excuse.  Let's  go." 

But  at  the  swell  apartment  house  where  he  has 
transformed  a  parlor  suite  into  a  toy  yacht  basin, 
the  Jamaican  elevator  man  insists  that  Uncle 
Nels  has  gone  out.  Somebody  has  called  him 

no  the  phone,  and  he'd  had  a  long  talk  with 

281 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

'em.     Then  he'd  strolled  out,  not  ten  minutes 
before. 

"When  he  comes  back,"  says  I,  "tell  him  his 
niece  was  here  and  was  all  cut  up  at  not  seeing 
him." 

"What  a  whopper!"  says  Inez,  as  we  starts 
downtown. 

"But  one  that  will  tickle  the  old  boy,"  says  I. 
"And  after  all,  he's  a  lonesome  old  scout.  Here's 
a  Fourth  Avenue  car." 

No  trouble  to  find  the  chop  suey  joint.  They 
light  'em  up  brilliant,  don't  they?  And  after 
we'd  climbed  the  flight  of  marble  steps  and 
pushed  through  the  wicker  doors,  we  blinked  for 
a  minute  as  we  gazed  about.  Hung  from  the 
ceiling  were  all  sorts  of  fancy  Chinese  lanterns, 
and  the  room  was  well  filled  with  little  teak-wood 
tables.  Business  was  light,  though,  for  hardly 
a  dozen  people  were  scattered  around.  A  Chink 
waiter  with  slick  black  hair  and  a  wooden  face 
was  beckoning  us  to  one  of  the  front  tables,  and 
I  was  about  to  follow  him  when,  down  at  the  far 
end  of  the  restaurant,  I  caught  sight  of  some 
cozy  little  coops,  like  pews  with  high  backs,  facing 
each  other  across  a  table  in  the  middle.  And  in 
one  of  "em,  toying  with  a  queer-looking  dish,  was 
this  liberally  rouged  female  with  eyes  set  on  the 
bias.  At  her  feet  I  could  just  see  the  corner  of 
a  black  suitcase. 

282 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"Gosh!"  says  I.    "The  very  one." 

"Hey?"  says  Inez. 

"What  Barry  picks  as  a  princess  of  the  royal 
blood,"  says  I.  "See?  The  one  parked  in  the 
slip." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  giving  her  the  casual  North 
and  South. 

"Precisely  my  sentiments,"  says  1.  "But  let's 
ease  ourselves  into  the  adjoining  pew  and  stretch 
an  ear." 

There  wasn't  much  to  be  heard,  though,  for 
the  mysterious  female  seemed  to  be  just  stalling 
around,  not  eating  recklessly  or  noisily.  We 
took  a  chance  on  ordering  some  of  the  weird 
things  on  the  menu,  and  while  we  were  waiting 
to  be  served  I  spotted  this  wall  mirror  opposite 
and  discovered  that  by  leaning  out  a  little  I 
could  get  a  fair  view  of  our  neighbor.  If  the 
glass  had  been  a  bit  cleaner  I  should  have  liked 
it  better,  but  as  it  was,  I  made  a  few  interesting 
notes. 

In  the  first  place  I  decided  that  those  curving 
Oriental  eyebrows  must  have  been  faked.  The 
eye-corners  looked  as  though  they'd  been  touched 
up  with  a  pencil,  too;  and  I  could  g\iess  that  the 
high  cheekbone  effect  was  mainly  due  to  make- 
up. It  can  be  done  with  a  little  flesh  pink  and 
dead  white  rubbed  in  at  exactly  the  right  spots. 
Next  I  noticed  her  feet.  She  was  no  Cinderella, 

283 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

I'll  tell  the  judge.  Those  strap  pumps  must  have 
been  46*5  at  least,  but  the  short  vamps  and  the 
pointed  toes  made  'em  look  smaller.  Both  heels 
were  run  over  on  the  inside.  And  up  the  side  of 
the  left  silk  stocking  was  a  run  that  had  been 
botchily  darned. 

"As  a  princess  picker/*  I  whispers  to  Inez, 
"our  Barry  is  a  good  judge  of  nut  sundaes.  Still, 
she  may  be  Queen  of  the  Coke  Runners,  just  as 
advertised.  There's  the  black  bag,  all  right. 
And  here  comes  this  low  comedy  Chink  waiter 
with  some  trick  food.  Say,  it  looks  like  some- 
body had  dropped  a  plate  of  goulash  on  two 
handfuls  of  excelsior.  You  try  it,  Inez,  and  if 
you  don't  develop  spasms  I  follow  along." 

"Smells  good,"  says  Inez.  And  then,  after 
she's  tried  a  forkful,  she  announces  that  it  tastes 
good.  It  did,  especially  after  it  was  mixed  with 
boiled  rice  and  seasoned  with  black  sauce  from 
the  vinegar  cruet. 

We  were  still  busy  investigating  the  food  when 
the  princess  gets  up,  impatient,  and  walks  to  the 
phone  booth. 

"And  she  leaves  the  bag  with  a  whole  fortune's 
worth  of  opium,  right  here!"  I  comments. 
"That's  what  I  call  careless.  Half  a  million, 
didn't  Barry  say?  M-m-m-m!  I  wonder." 

Also  I  figured  that  unless  the  lady  had  un- 
usual luck  it  would  take  her  five  minutes  or  more 

284 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

to  get  the  right  number.  Just  about  then,  too, 
the  boss  of  the  joint  and  one  of  the  waiters,  were 
having  a  hot  sing-song  debate  over  a  check,  and 
the  other  pie-faced  suey  juggler  was  taking  an 
order  at  the  front  end  of  the  room.  So  I  let  my 
curiosity  get  the  best  of  me.  I  used  my  boarding- 
house  reach,  stretched  a  hand  into  the  next 
booth,  and  dragged  the  bag  around  where  I  could 
shove  it  under  my  feet. 

"What  for?"  demands  Inez,  staring. 

"I'd  like  to  see  what  a  chunk  of  opium  worth 
that  much  looks  like,"  says  I.  "Wouldn't 
you?" 

"She'll  be  mad  if  she  finds  out,"  warns  Inez. 

"Naturally,"  says  I.  "  But  if  she  doesn't  know 
she'll  never  worry  a  bit.  Say,  it  is  heavy,  all 
right." 

I  found  that  out  when  I  lifted  it  up  on  the  seat 
beside  me.  Then  I  just  had  to  finger  the  big  gob 
of  yellow  sealing  wax.  It  looked  impressive,  but 
when  I  tried  the  catch  I  discovered  that  it  didn't 
seal  the  lock  at  all.  It  was  simply  stuck  on  the 
side.  And  before  I  knew  it  I  had  the  bag  open. 
Inside  was  this  lump  of  black  stuff,  about  as  big 
as  a  ham  and  a  half. 

"So  that's  opium,  is  it?"  I  remarks. 

"Looks  like  tar,"  says  Inez. 

"Eh?"  says  I,  sniffing.  "Why — why  it  smells 
like  tar." 

285 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

"I  can  tell,"  says  Inez.  "I  used  to  chew  it, 
like  gum." 

"Wait!"  says  I.  "Maybe  I  can  pry  off  a 
piece.  Let's  have  a  fork.  There!  Think  you've 
got  nerve  enough  to  test  it,  Inez?  Careful,  now! 
And  for  the  love  of  life  don't  swallow  any. 
Well?" 

"Sure  it's  tar,"  says  Inez.    "Don't  I  know?" 

"That's  enough,  then,"  says  I.  "  Back  it  goes. 
Just  in  time,  too.  Here  she  comes." 

So  when  the  princess  drifted  back  from  the 
phone  booth  we  were  bent  over  our  plates  once 
more.  She  didn't  even  notice  that  the  bag  wasn't 
just  where  she  left  it,  but  pushed  it  under  the 
seat  with  the  toe  of  her  pump  and  sat  down  to 
drum  her  fingers  restless  on  the  table. 

"From  the  lady's  motions,"  says  I,  "I  should 
guess  that  somebody  was  late  in  keeping  a  date. 
I'd  say  they  were  wise,  at  that." 

Then  I  noticed  Inez  gawping  across  at  the  mir- 
ror, as  if  she  were  watching  a  ghost. 

"Well,  spill  it!"  I  tells  her.  "Who's  coming 
now?" 

Inez  leans  across  and  whispers,  husky,  "It — 
it's  Uncle  Nels!" 

"What!"  says  I.  "How  in  the  name  of  Ouija 
could  he  know  we  were  here  ? " 

"It's  her,"  says  Inez,  nodding  toward  the  next 
slip. 

286 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I. 

But  a  glance  in  the  mirror  showed  that  the  lady 
had  seen  the  new  arrival  and  was  perking  up. 

"Back  in  the  corner,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Don't 
let  him  see  you.  Quick!" 

And  Inez  did  manage  to  shift  over  so  that 
most  of  her  must  have  been  hidden,  while  in  the 
glass  I  could  watch  the  old  boy  come  poking 
forward  to  where  the  smiling  princess  was  giving 
him  the  come-on  signal. 

Well,  that  gave  me  the  whole  plot  of  the  piece. 
Nearly  all  of  it,  anyway.  This  phony  princess  of 
Barry's  had  evidently  invented  a  new  game.  In- 
stead of  a  gold  brick  or  fake  crown  of  jewels  she 
was  baiting  the  suckers  with  a  tale  about  a  great 
chunk  of  smuggled  opium,  and  dressing  it  up 
fancy  with  all  this  about  working  through  the 
Chinese  embassy  and  being  a  member  of  the 
royal  family  herself. 

But  how  she  had  happened  to  land  a  cagey  old 
boy  like  Uncle  Nels  was  a  puzzle.  With  those 
shrewd  blue  eyes  of  his  and  the  grip  he  has  on  a 
dollar  you'd  think  he'd  be  the  last  one  to  fall  for 
an  easy  money  scheme  that  might  lead  to  a  ses- 
sion before  the  grand  jury.  You  can't  always 
tell,  though.  The  more  they  have  the  more  they 
want,  and  the  ones  with  the  simple,  honest  look, 
are  often  the  very  parties  that  believe  anything 
is  right  that  they  can  get  away  with. 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

As  it  develops  later,  this  con.  lady  had  got 
Uncle  Nels  on  her  list  through  the  door  man  at 
his  swell  "apartment  house.  Seems  they're  often 
a  crooked  lot,  these  door  men,  who  indulge  in  all 
sorts  of  pastimes,  from  petty  graft  out  of  taxi 
drivers  to  wholesale  bootlegging.  And  this  par- 
ticular pirate  had  whispered  to  Uncle  Nels  how 
a  certain  Princess  Chu  was  anxious  to  unload  a 
fortune  in  smuggled  coke  at  about  one-tenth  its 
value.  He'd  added  that  he  would  attend  to 
selling  it  to  the  proper  parties  if  Uncle  Nels 
would  finance  the  original  deal  by  putting  up  a 
certified  check  for  fifty  thousand.  And  dear 
old  Uncle  Nels  had  promptly  come  nibbling 
around  with  his  mouth  watering  and  his  fingers 
itchy. 

Course,  I  could  only  guess  at  part  of  this  from 
the  scraps  of  low-toned  conversation  that  came 
through  the  partition.  The  princess  spoke  of 
what  she  had  in  the  bag  as  "the  bonds,"  and 
assured  Uncle  Nels  that  they  were  all  ready  to 
deliver.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  see  'em.  Cer- 
tainly he  should.  And  we  heard  the  bag  dragged 
out  and  set  on  the  table.  In  the  mirror  I  could 
even  see  Uncle  Nels  taking  a  peek.  He  seemed 
satisfied  with  what  he  saw,  too.  Anyway,  he 
cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  wise, 
although  I  doubt  if  he's  ever  seen  a  piece  of  opium 
as  big  as  a  peanut  before. 

288 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"Well,"  said  the  princess,  "you  brought  the 
check,  did  you?" 

Uncle  Nels  feels  in  an  inside  pocket,  and 
nods. 

"Then  we  can  trade,  eh?"  suggests  the  lady. 
" You'll  have  to  make  it  snappy,  though,  for  I 
gotta  be  back  in  Washington  by  to-morrow 
morning.  Come  across." 

She  was  a  crisp  and  easy  worker,  I'll  say  that 
for  her.  Uncle  Nels  acts  almost  as  though  he's 
hypnotized,  for  he  nods  again,  and  his  hand  was 
just  appearing  with  the  check  in  it  when  I  slid 
out  of  our  booth  and  around  in  front  of  the  pair. 
Business  of  great  astonishment  on  the  part  of 
Uncle  Nels. 

"Hey!"  says  he.    "You  here,  Trilby  May?" 

"All  the  time,"  says  I.  "And  your  favorite 
niece,  too.  Come,  Inez,  pry  yourself  out  and 
join  the  party." 

As  for  the  fake  princess,  she  looks  much  an- 
noyed. "Say,  what's  the  idea?"  she  demands. 
"We're  talking  business  here." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  says  I.  "I've  been  listening 
in.  Cute  little  proposition  you've  got,  too.  But 
say,  I  just  want  Uncle  Nels  to  take  a  close  look 
at  a  sample  of  what  he's  buying  before  the  deal 
is  closed.  Show  him,  Inez." 

And  Inez  holds  out  a  fair  hand  with  this  cold 
cud  resting  in  the  palm,  tooth  marks  and  all. 

289 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Uncle  Nels  stares  at  it,  pokes  it  around  with  one 
finger,  and  then  takes  a  sniff. 

"Only  tar,"  says  he. 

"Same  as  the  lump  in  the  bag,"  says  I.  "I 
can  show  you  where  I  pried  this  piece  off  with  a 
fork.  See?" 

He  has  fairly  good  eyesight,  Uncle  Nels.  He 
saw  the  fork  marks,  and  he  smelled  of  the  chunk 
in  the  bag.  Then  the  hand  with  the  check  went 
back  into  his  inside  pocket. 

"Ha,  ha!"  says  I,  grinning  at  the  princess. 
"Foiled  again!" 

Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  done  that.  She 
wasn't  a  good  loser,  this  lady  with  the  slanting 
eyebrows.  And  for  a  member  of  the  Chinese 
royal  family  she  surely  could  swear  fluently  in 
Manhattanese,  with  quite  a  marked  Irish  brogue. 
Also,  she  was  inclined  to  make  messy  motions. 
The  Chink  boss  came  from  behind  the  counter, 
and  looked  threatening,  too.  But  I  had  my  bluff 
all  thought  out. 

"Listen,  Inez,"  says  I.  "I'm  going  down  to 
the  front  door  to  call  in  detective  Cimonetti,  and 
if  any  of  those  persons  try  to  stop  me  I  give  you 
leave  to  use  'em  as  rough  as  you  choose.  Are 
you  ready?  Then  here  goes." 

She's  about  as  frail  looking,  you  know,  as  a 
superdreadnaught;  and  when  she  sets  her  jaw 

that  way  and  plants  her  feet  wide  she  does  ap- 

290 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

pear  more  or  less  hostile.  Anyway,  they  didn't 
seem  anxious  to  mix  in.  Also,  how  should  they 
know  that  I  didn't  have  a  detective  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs?  Perhaps  that  seemed  the  most 
probable  thing  in  the  world  to  the  lady  with  the 
black  bag.  Almost  before  I  had  started  for  the 
stairs  she  was  scuttling  through  a  door  at  the 
rear,  and  the  wooden-faced  Chink  was  shuffling 
after  her.  For  a  speedy  doubt  exit  it  was  quite 
a  success.  The  first  thing  we  know  they'd  both 
faded. 

"Come,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I,  "it  isn't  too  late 
for  you  to  show  us  that  new  toy  steamer,  is  it?" 

And  it  isn't  until  we're  well  on  our  way  up- 
town in  a  taxi  he  insists  on  hailing  that  Uncle 
Nels  makes  his  great  confession. 

"Trilby  May — Inez,"  says  he,  taking  each  one 
of  us  by  the  hand.  "I — I'm  an  old  fool." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  that,"  says  I. 
"You're  no  Solomon,  maybe,  but  I've  seen  worse. 
Besides,  you  were  up  against  a  smooth  per- 
former." 

"You — you  save  me  from  losing  lot  of  money," 
he  insists. 

"Oh,  I  expect  you'd  do  as  much  for  us,"  says 
I,  careless. 

But  he  shakes  his  head  and  goes  on.  "It's 
what  I  get  for  being  selfish  and  living  alone  like 
I  do.  I  get  lonesome  and  I  talk  to  strangers. 

291 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 

Always  they  try  to  get  my  money  away.  I  have 
big  place  where  I  live — eight,  nine  rooms.  It's 
nice  place,  too.  Why  you  and  Inez  don't  come 
with  me?  Hey?1* 

He  says  it  pleading  and  plaintive. 

"For  one  thing,"  says  I,  "we  haven't  been 
invited  before.  And  anyway,  it  all  rests  with 
Inez.  She's  your  blood  relation,  you  know.  So 
it's  up  to  her  to  say." 

"You  will,  eh?"  urges  Uncle  Nels. 

But  Inez  isn't  jumping  at  the  offer.  Other 
things  than  uncles  count  in  her  young  life,  and 
she  wants  to  know  about  'em. 

"Could  I  go  by  movies?"  she  demands. 

"Sure!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Maybe  I  get  to 
like  'em  myself.  Theater  plays,  too,  and  Coney 
Island.  We  all  have  good  times  and  I  don't  get 
lonesome  any  more." 

Almost  any  girl  but  Inez  would  have  been  clap- 
ping her  hands  and  beaming  by  then.  Not  Inez, 
though.  She  seldom  beams.  But  as  we  drew 
up  under  the  entrance  light  I  saw  a  satisfied 
flicker  in  her  big  gray  eyes. 

"All  right,  we  come,"  says  she.  "Maybe  to- 
morrow. But  I  don't  wanna  see  boats  to-night. 
I'm  sleepy." 

And  that  was  all  the  enthusiasm  Inez  let  loose 
when  this  long  hunt  of  ours  for  her  rich  uncle 
ended  so  happy.  She  yawned.  As  for  me,  I 

292 


SLEUTHING  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

was  never  more  wide  awake.  I  felt  as  though 
I'd  been  shut  in  a  room  for  a  long  time  struggling 
with  a  locked  door  that  wouldn't  open,  and  that 
suddenly  it  had  swung  wide.  I  was  free  to  step 
out  into  a  broad,  busy  street.  I  wanted  to  cheer 
and  shout.  For  of  course  I  had  no  notion  of 
settling  down  with  Inez  and  Uncle  Nels  and  going 
to  the  movies,  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Hardly. 
Not  that  I  had  any  program.  But  now  that  I 
had  landed  Inez  where  she  belonged,  I  knew  I 
was  free  to  make  one. 

"You  sleepy,  too,  Trilby  May?"  asks  Inez,  as 
we  climbs  the  front  steps  at  Miss  Wellby's. 

"Just  as  sleepy  as  a  kid  starting  for  the  circus, 
Inez,"  says  I.  "But  don't  let  me  keep  you  up. 
I've  got  to  get  off  a  letter  to  Barry  Platt." 

"What  you  tell  him?"  demands  Inez. 

"That  he's  a  nice  boy,"  says  I,  "but  that  as  a 
princess  connoisseur  he's  a  piece  of  cheese." 

"You — you  no  like  Barry?"  asks  Inez. 

"If  I  find  out  before  morning,"  says  I,  "shall 
I  wake  you  up  and  let  you  know  ?  No,  1  thought 
not.  Then  suppose  we  just  let  it  ride," 


THE   END 


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